


Afraid to Smile

by kaythenorthface



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternative Universe - FBI, Demisexuality, M/M, Pining, Protectiveness, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-07-25 08:19:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 51,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16193687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaythenorthface/pseuds/kaythenorthface
Summary: Special Agent Jefferson Haines has enough on his plate trying to stop the escalating murders of Boston's Smiley Face Killer before more victims lose their lives. The last thing he needs is the unexpected return of his college roommate- and the unrequited love of his life- into the picture. Along with his partner, Special Agent Caroline Pelley, he works to stop the killings while wondering if he may get a second chance at happiness after all.





	1. Chapter 1

The location was one of the grandest in Boston. Multi-million-dollar condos towered overhead, boasting views that stretched miles into the Boston Harbor, out towards the string of islands dotting the Atlantic Ocean. Dozens of sailboats were moored about twenty yards into the water, masts forming a forest of sorts, with limp sails instead of leaves. Two luxury yachts, both larger than Jefferson’s one-bedroom apartment, were anchored to the docks. An enormous archway spanned overhead, creating an open plaza between two sides of a boutique hotel. Five-star steak and seafood restaurants made up the ground level, offering diners a picture-perfect view. The scene could have been on a postcard in one of the many souvenir shops only a quarter-mile away, off Market Street by Faneuil Hall.

 

Contrasted against so much quiet beauty, the body lying face-down, half submerged, half posed on one of the docks, looked especially lurid.

 

It was early in the morning and so much of the city was still asleep that Jefferson could hear the sound of every wave lapping against the stones making up the Harborwalk where he stood. There was a bite in the air and enough of a wind to make him hunch in on himself as he walked closer to the barrier at the ocean’s edge: large concrete blocks connected by thick wrought-iron links done in the style of an anchor chain. He pulled his Bureau jacket closer to his chest. The weather hadn’t yet caught up with the official start of spring. Bright rays of light glinting off the water promised a warmth that wouldn’t really come until May. Only a few weeks prior, this part of the harbor was frozen solid. 

 

Although it was hard to see from where he was standing, Jefferson thought the deceased may have been a man in his late-twenties or early-thirties, close to Jefferson’s age. The victim was roughly 5’10 or 5’11, Caucasian with red hair. Some strands of copper kept drifting aimlessly back and forth in the waves. The gold bands of the Bruins hockey jersey he was wearing contrasted brightly against the murky harbor water. 

 

The stripes were almost the same shade of yellow as the smiling face spray-painted onto the dock above the body. The mark was impossible to miss, several feet across in diameter and done in the style of an emoji icon, only there was something decidedly more malicious about the slant of the eyes and the curl of the mouth than the smiley face on Jefferson’s iPhone keyboard. The work was unsettling. As Jefferson stared at it, unable to look away, he felt his skin prickle and a chill go down his spine. That cruelly laughing mouth seemed to mock the young life cut short beneath it.

 

In the distance, a long-necked black bird emerged briefly for air, craning its head to look curiously in the direction of the dozens of government officials crowded on a relatively short strip of concrete, then dove deeply again. A crime-scene like this was rarely the business of the FBI. In a city like Boston-- mid-sized with a large student population-- young men drowned at higher rates than in the average American town. They got drunk and accidentally fell in bodies of water; they went on late night runs and slipped off pathways; they intentionally took their own lives by jumping off bridges. Normally Boston Police would pursue an investigation like this on their own.

 

But this hadn’t been an accident. Although there was no visible sign of trauma, that smiling face declared ‘murder’ for the world to see.

 

An early morning jogger had made the gruesome discovery, happening to look down when she stopped to tie a shoe. She’d called 911 and the Boston Police Department (BPD) had quickly arrived on site. Due to the location of the body and it’s… unique staging, the Massachusetts State Police, the Coast Guard, and the FBI had all been notified. For the moment, it was almost as if there were a small fence around the body-- no one dared to approach it until jurisdictional issues were sorted out.

 

“Special Agent Haines,” someone called across the small crowd of agents and officers gathered in clusters along the Harborwalk.

 

Jefferson turned, feeling himself relax at the sight of the tall woman striding towards him, her black hair braided and pulled back into a long ponytail. “Special Agent Pelley,” he said, matching the level of formality she’d adopted for the circumstance.

 

Caroline Pelley had been a Division I college swimmer at the University of Maryland. In the years since she hadn’t let her physical fitness slide. Every bit of her body was sculpted solid muscle, from her calves to her sinewy biceps. Once, an idiot suspect told her she belonged on the cover of Sports Illustrated, and while it had been wildly inappropriate and she’d probably cuffed him harder than she needed to, Jefferson objectively thought it was hard to argue against.

 

“I missed you in the weight room,” she said once she’d gotten closer. “You sleep in, lazy-ass?”

 

He snorted. “I wish.” The call alerting him of the discovery of the body had come fifteen minutes before they usually met up to head to Boston Sports Club in the morning. Unless she’d gone an hour early, Caroline hadn’t gotten in any lifting of her own.

 

Side-by-side, they made an imposing pair: her height and strength matched with Jefferson’s 6’4 foot frame and broad shoulders; her dark skin a complement to his own New England winter fueled pale skin. They were never going to be well-suited to the discretion required for undercover work, but in their three-years as partners, they’d built an impressive arrest record. She was his ride-or-die, as he liked to joke every time they were trapped in a car together on stake-out.

 

“I brought you this,” he offered, holding out his left hand.

 

She gratefully accepted the still-steaming styrofoam Dunkin’ Donuts cup and took a sip with a pleased hum. “Mmm, thanks.”

 

Jefferson moved backward, away from the tragic scene below them, still feeling strangely discomforted. It wasn’t the body itself-- he saw plenty of those in the course of his job. What was bothering him, he thought, was that spray-painted face; the kind of sick humor that lay behind the calling-card. 

 

“Have you learned anything?” he asked.

 

Caroline brushed past him, stepping to the edge and looking down at the victim with a faint grimace. “The vic’s name was Henry O’Brien. 27 years old. Local boy, born and raised in South Boston. He was at the Bruins game last night with his roommates. Apparently, they all walked out together but they lost him in the crowd outside the Garden. They figured he’d catch a different train and meet them back at their apartment.”

 

Jefferson didn’t need to guess. “Which he never did.”

 

Caroline’s eyes flicked back to the water. “No.”

 

“We’re a half-mile from the Garden,” Jefferson said.

 

“I know,” Caroline said. “So either Henry got lost or someone moved him here.”

 

There was a prolonged pause at that idea.

 

“Had he been drinking?” Jefferson asked.

 

“It was a _Bruins_ game,” Caroline said pointedly. So Henry’d had more than a few beers.

 

To abduct someone in a sea of 20,000 people-- not to mention everyone else out at the bars on Causeway Street, you needed your prey to go relatively willingly; or at least be unlikely to cause a fuss. Their murderer had looked for an easy victim and poor Henry had apparently fit the profile.

 

“What do you think of that?” Jefferson asked, gesturing at the shock of yellow paint on the seawall. Parts of the graffiti tag were still trailing droplets of paint. It was fresh, only hours old.

 

“It means the case is ours,” she said, meaning _FBI business_. “No one can deny we have a serial killer on our hands.”

 

Jefferson shaded his eyes with one hand, looking towards to the distant horizon. Boats were starting to move through the channels in earnest now, both fishermen headed back to the Seaport with their catches from the morning and ferries shuttling commuters to the city center. People were waking up and going about their days, oblivious to the fact that a monster lived among them.

 

Voice tight, he said: “Not anymore.”

 

**

 

Every member of the Boston office was crammed into the Bureau’s largest briefing room, the one they’d arguably outgrown two years ago when they added two new sets of partners to the team. All of the seats were taken and a line of agents stood against the exit wall listening to Deputy Director Strait speak. Jefferson and Caroline made up a portion of that group in the back. Considering their heights, it was easier to lean against the wall and stretch their legs to get comfortable than try and squeeze into a tiny desk. Once Deputy Director Strait hit his stride, it took a _long_ time for him to stop talking.

 

“By now, I’m sure you’re all familiar with rumors of the ‘Smiley Face Killer,’” Deputy Director Strait said. He had an extremely square jaw-- a face not unlike a Boxer’s-- that made him terrifying when he was angry, but he also had a tendency to put things in physical air quotes (like ‘Smiley Face Killer’) and to create elaborate PowerPoint presentations, which undermined his intimidating air.

 

As if on cue, his Special Assistant, Morgan, used a remote to click on the large TV at the front of the room. The PowerPoint had a title slide: _Boston’s ‘Smiley Face Killer’_ (written in Times New Roman, of course) with a screenshot of a Google Map, pins dropped in clusters along the city’s two primary waterbodies-- the Charles River, snaking long and narrow along the Northwest border of the city, and the Harbor, an enormous mass covering the Northeast and most of the Eastern edge of the city. They intersected at the locks by TD Garden, close to where the victim had last been seen alive.

 

The next slide was a chart with six columns and many more rows: _Name; Race; Age; Year of Death; Location Body Found; Police Ruling_. Deputy Director Strait continued: “Over the last 15 years, the bodies of 12 young men have been discovered in the Charles River and the Boston Harbor. Although the victims have all been male and between the ages of 20-35, they had little else in common. They’ve otherwise varied in race, socio-economic status, and even sexuality. In half of all cases, a smiley face icon of some kind was found within 50 feet of the scene.” 

 

“In many cases, although the deaths were ruled suicide or accidental drowning, the family and friends of the victim were adamant that the victim had no history of mental illness, no warning signs of suicidal thoughts. Several times that a death was ruled accidental drowning, the victim was sober at the time of the toxicology screen. Gradually, as the victim’s stories spread, a cult theory developed that a serial killer was responsible for hunting down young men in Boston and luring them to their death in nearby water bodies.”

 

“ _12 bodies_ ,” Deputy Director Strait puffed his chest with righteous indignation. “For fifteen years, BPD has insisted that this isn’t a Federal case. Commissioner Beau and his boys in blue have refused to even consider the broader pattern. They’ve done their damndest to keep us out of this. Now they don’t have a choice anymore. The case is ours.”

 

Deputy Director Strait took a deep breath. Morgan clicked over the slide. “Here’s what we know now: One: the murderer is believed to be acting alone.” Deputy Director Strait held up a finger to illustrate this, then added a second when he moved on to his next point. “Two: he’s consistent.”

 

Deputy Director Strait switched to the masculine pronoun without any explanation. The assumption itself wouldn’t have necessarily been surprising (statistically, serial killers were significantly more likely to be male than female) but a bullet point on the current slide ( _What We Know Now)_ provided additional clarification that he hadn’t spoken aloud: _It’s believed that the SFK is male, as a female wouldn’t be strong enough to drag unconscious men to the water’s edge and lift them in._

 

Beside him, Jefferson could feel Caroline rolling her eyes. She didn’t have to voice her thoughts on this to him. By now, he knew her well enough to realize she was thinking that _she_ was strong enough to drag any guy in this room, including Deputy Director Strait, miles if she had to. Every morning in the weight room, she lifted 200 pounds when she did her deadlifts.

 

The slide switched again. This one was a timeline. “At his most frequent, our perp has committed three murders in one year. In quiet stretches, he’s never gone more than two years without striking.”

 

Deputy Director Strait made a pointing motion and Morgan changed slides. This time it was a clipart picture of a medicine bottle and a list of symptoms: _lack of muscle control, amnesia, loss of inhibitions, and loss of consciousness_. “In a few instances where the victim was discovered early enough, the tox screen came back positive for Rohypnol. Otherwise known as a _Date-Rape Drug_ , Rohypnol is believed to be used to incapacitate the victims and make them more easy to manipulate.” 

 

On cue, Morgan clicked through two more slides in quick succession. The first slide was a collage with more than ten different smiley faces, some carved into tree bark, others written in Sharpie on benches, and more still formed with rocks and debris on the ground. The second slide had nothing except a full-screen photo of the graffiti from that morning’s murder. As he studied it, Jefferson unbent his knee, letting his foot rest on the ground. He found the art exactly as unsettling as it had been hours ago, even without the body staged underneath. The thick, jagged lines used for the eyes and mouth conveyed a sadistic streak that hadn’t been satisfied by the act of taking a life. 

 

“He’s bold, and growing bolder,” Deputy Director Strait continued. “Our profilers believe the discovery of this morning’s smiley face—larger and closer to the body than with any victims before—was intended as a direct challenge to law enforcement. It’s likely that our ‘Smiley Face Killer’ is growing bored. For too long his work has gone unnoticed, written off in the Globe as yet another suicide by a depressed college student,” Deputy Director Strait adopted a judgmental tone here, making it clear that he considered this a serious failure of imagination by the Boston Police Department and Boston’s most respected newspaper. “So long deprived of the attention and recognition he feels he deserves, our experts believe we can expect the killer to escalate his attacks. They’ll come more frequently, and they’ll come with other signatures that are impossible to ignore.” He gestured at the smiley face still leering at them from the screen.

 

For the second time that day, Jefferson found himself fighting off the urge to shudder as he took in the wicked curl of the painted mouth. He dropped his gaze from the screen, staring at his polished black dress shoes until he jerked his head back up at the unexpected sound of his name.

 

“Special Agent Haines, Special Agent Pelley, I want you on point on this. Special Agent Gilbert, Special Agent Valdès, I want you on support.” Deputy Director Straight was referring to two agents in their early forties—the partner set with the most combined years of experience in the Boston office. Solely considering tenure with the Bureau, the hierarchy of the case was borderline insulting to Special Agents Gilbert and Valdès. Considering track-record, the assignment seemed more fair. Regardless, Deputy Director Straight was probably going to get an earful in his office later.

 

Caroline pushed off the wall, standing at attention. By now, they had the eyes of all the agents in the room on them. Jefferson quickly followed suit.

 

“I want you to do us proud,” Deputy Director Straight told them, eyes locked with Jefferson’s. “Show the BPD exactly why they should have called us in years ago.”

 

“Yes sir,” Jefferson said, in unison with his partner.

 

They filed out of the room with the rest of the office. Just outside the door, Caroline elbowed him gently. Jefferson elbowed her right back. The pressure was on. According to their profilers, the clock was ticking quickly before more victims lost their lives. No matter whoever was responsible for these murders, it was their job to stop him. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for starting this adventure with me! 
> 
> A few notes:  
> -This is heavily inspired by the works of Josh Lanyon. I love her stuff to pieces and if you like this would be happy to recommend some books to start.  
> -This is also heavily based on PERVASIVE rumors in Boston that there is an actual Smiley Face Killer. Google it. It's really creepy. Boston's Police Chief has had to address this rumor, that's how common it is.  
> -This story will probably be about as graphic as your average TV show procedural. Few things will be very descriptive, but there is lots of mention of people dying/being murdered as there is a serial killer on the loose.  
> -Initial warnings I can think of: There are occasional mentions of suicide (in that the murders are investigated as suicides before that theory is ruled out). A date rape drug is discussed in some detail.  
> -Sorry for any mistakes with procedure/FBI. Law enforcement is not my career, and unless you count reading about the Smiley Face Killer on a bizarre conspiracy theory website for five hours one night I have done basically no research.


	2. Chapter 2

There were many things Jefferson liked about his job: feeling like he was making a difference in the world; putting ‘bad guys’ away; helping others; working with Caroline; and the pressure to be in peak physical shape, among many other things. Interviewing the friends and family of the deceased was nowhere near the top of the list.

 

There was a kid sitting across from them-- well, Peter McDonnell was 26, but he _looked_ like a kid: too thin, eyes red, arms wrapped around his body as if he was hugging himself, the frame of his body almost hidden by a too-large grey sweatshirt-- actively fighting back tears at the thought that he would never see one of his best friends again and in the pursuit of justice they had to push him to keep talking no matter how much it upset him.

 

“Walk us through what happened that night,” Jefferson requested. He was trying to sound approachable-- sympathetic, even-- but the instructions came out brusquer than he meant for them to. Neither half of their partner duo, Caroline or he, was a very touchy-feely kind of person. They weren’t good at the parts of their job that required the softer skills. What they excelled at was getting out on the streets, chasing leads, asking the hard questions, and being willing to make tough calls without hesitation even when there was limited information to work off of. It was hard to shake the feeling sometimes when conducting an interview that the longer he sat around in a room talking, the closer the perp got to getting away. “Tell us everything you can remember. No matter how inconsequential a detail might seem, it may be important.”

 

“The game ended,” Peter said slowly. He closed his eyes, tipping his head back in what seemed to be an unconscious effort to remember more. “We’d been down 2-1 going into the third, but the boys had come back and won so everyone was excited. People were yelling, throwing their drinks. We were in the nosebleeds so it took us a while to get down through the stairwell.”

 

“How many of you were there?” Caroline asked. They already knew the answer to that question but sometimes it made a difference to hear how the witness answered it. If in his response the number changed, or a member of their group stood out more than another, that could be a key to unlocking a lead.

 

“Four,” Peter said. “Me. Henry...” His face crumpled. “Our friend Bo and his girlfriend Julie. We all went to BU together.”

 

“Did you meet up with anyone else?” Jefferson asked. “Talk to anyone? Friends from school? Strangers?”

 

“No,” Peter said. “We hadn’t seen each other in a while so we just wanted to hang out. Bo and Julie, I mean. Henry is… was…” he made a broken, choked-off sound. “Henry was my roommate. My best friend. I saw him every day.” He raised a fist to his face, scrubbing at his eyes.

 

Hundreds of people had cried to Jefferson over the years. Moms who’d lost sons. Children who’d lost parents. Husbands who’d lost wives. Most of the time he didn’t let it affect him much. It wasn’t that he didn’t sympathize with them-- he _did;_ he couldn’t imagine what most of the people he interviewed were going through. Every single day he worked hard to make sure no one else had to go through something similar again. But if he couldn’t turn his emotions off-- if he always let himself be sucked in-- he’d be overwhelmed by how shitty the world could be. He would drown in other people’s hopelessness and loss if he let himself. Over time, he’d learned how to be dispassionate enough to do his job.

 

Watching Peter wipe his eyes while his voice broke hit Jefferson harder than one of these interviews had in a very long time-- since maybe his first year on the job. He remembered being 20, seeing Finny laughing across the room at him every day when Jefferson hit snooze on his alarm several times too many, then falling asleep at night with his comforting presence in a twin bed practically in arm’s reach. _My roommate. My best friend._ They’d had at least one meal a day together whenever school was in session, whether it was carrying out sandwiches from Jimmy Johns or braving the line at the dining hall. On weekends it was Finny who joined him, more often than not, to lounge in the sun on the roof of the house, dozing instead of reading for class, as he’d originally intended.

 

The way he’d ended up losing Finny had hurt like fucking hell. To this day, there was this gaping emptiness in his life where his closest friend had been. The littlest things sometimes made him think of Finny and whenever that happened he was always blindsided by how much he missed their time together. The terrible way their friendship ended still ate away at him, _still_ kept him awake at night sometimes, but at least Finny was _alive._ Jefferson could take comfort in secondhand reports that Finny was happy and doing well in his career. When he was drunk enough, Jefferson could cling to the hope that one day there was a chance he could make things right between them again.

 

God, if Finny had _died._ If Finny had died… he couldn’t even think about it. What would he have done? Drunk himself into a stupor, probably. Screwed up any chance he had of getting this job. Something inside him would have shattered and never, _ever,_ have been made whole again. Thinking about it made his chest hurt. Jefferson swallowed, trying to get rid of the cottony sensation clogging up the back of his mouth.

 

Apparently, he’d taken too long to respond to Peter. Caroline gave him a sideways, curious look, then turned her full attention back to their witness. “So you didn’t speak to anyone else that night?”

 

“Not really,” Peter said. “I mean we ordered drinks… we high-fived other people in the crowd when we scored… but no, we were just watching the game.”

 

“Okay,” Jefferson said, regaining control of himself. “Then what? What happened after the game ended?”

 

“It was really crowded,” Peter said. “There were people everywhere. And everyone was in their jerseys so everyone looked the same. We followed the crowd down the stairs and eventually ended up outside. It was freezing. We needed to take the T home, so we decided to cross Causeway Street and go in the entrance there. There was no way with so many other people exiting to go back inside North Station to get to the trains there.”

 

“When did you realize Henry was missing?” Jefferson asked.

 

“A few minutes after we crossed the street. He’d been standing at the crosswalk with us. He should’ve been right behind us when we got to the other side. But he wasn’t. He was just gone.”

 

“That was the last place you saw him?” Caroline prompted. “The crosswalk by the Bobby Orr statue?”

 

They lived very close to where Henry had last been seen and were more familiar with those streets than anywhere else in Boston. Everything Peter was describing Jefferson could picture vividly in his head without needing to walk to site in person. They still would, of course.

 

“Yeah,” Peter said, with another hitch to his voice. “W-we waited a while on the corner thinking he’d somehow missed the light. We went back across to look for him. We tried calling him. He never picked up. Eventually, we decided to catch a train and go home. We were all tired. I said I’d keep an eye out for him back at the apartment.”

 

“Did you suspect anything was wrong?”

 

“No. I thought he was just being a drunk idiot,” Peter said this with a healthy amount of self-disgust. “If I’d known…” he broke off.

 

Caroline tried a different tact. “You spent a lot of time with Henry. Had he started behaving differently lately? Disappearing more often? Taking more calls? Bringing new people over?”

 

“No,” Peter said, looking bewildered. “He worked a lot so when he was home he just wanted to relax. We watched a lot of Netflix. Ordered delivery. He was taking a break from dating so he wasn’t using any of the apps.”

 

“Had he pissed anyone off recently?” Jefferson asked. He was confident of the answer, but it was best practice to ask.

 

Peter shook his head. “No.”

 

“Had either of you gotten any threatening messages, either online or in the mail?”

 

“No.”

 

There was a brief silence as both Jefferson and Caroline thought through any other questions they might like to ask. Peter filled the gap. “I still can’t believe it’s true. Why would someone kill _Henry_?”

 

“We plan to figure that out,” Caroline told him in a voice like steel. It was her most authoritative voice; the one that declared _FBI Agent_ to the world whether she wanted it to or not.

 

**

 

The friends from Boston College-- Bo and Julie-- independently confirmed the same story. No, they hadn’t spent much time with anyone else that night. No, there hadn’t been any reason to worry when they first lost sight of Henry at the crosswalk. No, in the crowd they hadn’t noticed anyone following them or getting too close. One minute Henry was there beside them and the next he was gone.

 

“Fans are always assholes at the Garden,” Julie said, biting her lip and looking frustrated she couldn’t be more helpful. “But no one particularly stood out. I would’ve noticed if someone was paying too much attention to us.”

 

**

 

Late that afternoon, they commandeered a smaller conference room for a debrief with their full case team. Special Agent David Valdes and Special Agent Kenneth Gilbert, the other two agents supporting Jefferson and Caroline on the case, despite being 15 years their senior, were as opposite to each other as Jefferson and Caroline were similar. Special Agent Valdes was an athletic man, married with two teenage daughters and one son. He’d just completed his first Ironman. Special Agent Gilbert was just shy of the FBI weight limit, with a pronounced beer gut. After three divorces, he seemed to have stopped trying for a fourth. When Special Agent Valdes went home for the day, Special Agent Gilbert went out with some of the other single agents, usually to the bars near Fenway.

 

The other half of their team had been busy themselves, interviewing Henry’s boss and colleagues at the internet security consulting company where he worked. Those interviews had come back equally inconclusive: Henry kept his head down and put in the long hours to do his job. He was mostly quiet, but friendly when spoken to. No, he hadn’t been promoted recently; hadn’t been given any advantages over his colleagues. No, he hadn’t screwed up any high-profile projects lately. Their clients were happy with them. The company was expanding.

 

“We found no evidence that anyone at Cybereason had a motive to kill Henry O’Brien,” Special Agent Valdes concluded.

 

**

 

By the time they wrapped up for the day, it was late-- almost 21:00-- and neither of them’d had dinner. The first beats of what would soon be a ferocious headache were pounding against Jefferson’s temple. Their hours were consistently long in general. Like most FBI offices, they were staffed with too few agents for the caseload of a major urban area. Nonetheless, it always took a week or two to get used to the grind of a real case, where the eyes of the entire city were on them and there was no room for error.

 

Their post-work routine was set by now. It was his week to drive so Caroline followed him down to the parking lot and slid into the passenger seat of his Nissan Rogue waiting for him to start the engine. About six months after they’d been partnered together, the apartment building he was living in in Somerville had been purchased by a new owner, and he’d been evicted so that the units could be converted into condominiums. There’d been a move-in special in Caroline’s building, right in the heart of the city, close to T.D. Garden and the North End, but close to 93 North too, which they needed to take to Route 1 to get to the FBI offices in Chelsea.

 

“We work all the same hours,” she’d pointed out. “Might as well save on gas.”

 

They’d lived five floors apart from each other ever since.

 

There was always some traffic going back to Boston. Even this late, there was still a steady line of red taillights heading away from the city. For their reverse commute, the roads were as clear as they would ever get, which meant there were only a few times they had to slam on the brakes for an unexpected slowdown. In less than ten minutes, they’d passed under the bright lights of the Zakim Bridge and were pulling into the garage at their high-rise.

 

Jefferson put the car in park in his designated spot, then sat without moving, thinking about what he had in his fridge for dinner. He had a Blue Apron kit leftover from his weekly delivery, so in theory there was something for him to eat. There just wasn’t anything that would take less than a half-hour to cook. Right now, he really didn’t have the energy to make anything.

 

“Harp?” he asked hopefully as Caroline unbuckled her seatbelt. It didn’t get much more convenient than the sports bar across the street from their building’s lobby.

 

Caroline laughed, her brown eyes lighting up with it. “I thought we were trying to eat out less.”

 

“We can start tomorrow,” Jefferson said, with a one-shouldered shrug. That garnered another snort of amusement

 

“I’m not going to Harp if it’s a game night,” she said, caving easily. Caroline hated cooking too. Most of the nights they ate out, it was due to her bad influence, not his. “You know it’ll be a madhouse.”

 

The Bruins had played yesterday. Unfortunately, they were well aware of that. After a quick look at his phone, Jefferson determined: “Celts play tomorrow.”

 

Caroline was already halfway out of the car. “Let’s do it.”

 

**

 

The arrival of a cold glass of beer, a cheeseburger, and a plate of fries went a long way towards getting rid of the pain in Jefferson’s head. He’d been hungrier than he realized. The smell of grilled meat and fried food set his mouth to watering. In three bites, he’d downed what looked like half the burger.

 

“Never gets old,” he told Caroline, still chewing.

 

“You’re disgusting,” she told him, raising a perfectly manicured eyebrow in his direction. “You forget we didn’t hit the gym this morning, chubbs?”

 

“I have a good metabolism,” Jefferson informed him. He eyed her plate of chili-loaded nachos pointedly. “Besides. Pot, kettle.”

 

“I promise I won’t get any complaints about my body,” she said, with a leer.

 

“No, you won’t,” Jefferson said, laughing as he raised his glass to toast.

 

It was hard to keep up with Caroline’s seemingly never-ending stream of guys-of-the-month, but there was always someone kicking around. He usually met each one of the poor saps at least once. Inevitably they’d get into the elevator along with Caroline in the morning when it stopped five floors down from Jefferson’s apartment, looking desperately in need of several more hours of sleep before they had to go back to work. Those mornings, Jefferson would offer Caroline a grin and say ‘hi’, the elevator would descend in quiet to the lobby where the guy would get out to call an Uber, and Caroline and Jefferson would continue down to the parking garage en route to their morning workout at Boston Sports Club.

 

“You still seeing that doctor?” he asked, washing a bite of burger down with a swig of beer.

 

“Nurse,” Caroline corrected, around her own mouthful of chips. “And yes. For the moment.”

 

Jefferson whistled. “Five weeks. That’s practically a record.”

 

She shot him a wink in return. “He’s very good with his tong--”

 

“We’re not _that_ good of friends,” Jefferson interrupted, dropping a fry so he could pretend to put his hands over his ears. “I don’t want to hear it.”

 

“Would you rather I tell you about his penis?” Caroline asked, faux-innocently. “It’s been what? A year-and-a-half since you last saw one, right?

 

“You’re a bitch,” he told her, with far too much amusement. That was something else the suspects always liked to call her. For some reason, it had taken on its own life as an affectionate nickname. He waved to the waitress for another beer for both of them. “Stone cold, Caroline.”

 

“What happened to that guy who gave you his number at Trillium? You ever go out with him?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“He was hot!” Caroline protested, throwing up a hand.

 

“So.” Jefferson shrugged. “Wasn’t feeling it.”

 

“You’re never _feeling_ anyone,” Caroline told him. She threw a stray jalapeno at him. “You’re the biggest waste of a six-pack I’ve ever met.”

 

“I have high standards,” he told her. “Unlike _some_ people.”

 

“You have impossible standards. If it weren’t for Provincetown, I’d think you were a nun.”

 

“We’re _not_ talking about Provincetown,” he insisted, feeling his face heat. The waitress had just brought their second round of beers, so he raised his glass in illustration. “Maybe if I’d had five more of these.”

 

“Oh my god,” she said delightedly. He could tell she was actively reliving the night, remembering each one of the embarrassing things he’d done. “You were _so loud_.”

 

Almost two years ago, a bunch of Caroline’s old UMass Swimming teammates had rented a house on the beach at the very tip of Cape Cod. Most of them had brought dates, but she’d brought Jefferson instead of her current slam-piece. After a day filled with way too much day-drinking, their group had somehow ended up at one of Provincetown’s many gay nightclubs. It hadn’t been Jefferson’s idea.

 

He didn’t remember much of the night beyond that. Caroline frequently-- and enthusiastically-- liked to rehash the rest of the evening for his benefit, though, so he had the gist of it.

 

“You bought me those shots,” he reminded her.

 

“You were in _my_ bed,” she retaliated. 

 

“I bought you breakfast,” he said. “I washed the sheets. You said you would drop it.”

 

“Never,” she said. Then a wicked gleam came into her eye. “You just need to get laid again. Then I’ll have something else to rake you over.”

 

“I’m asking for a new partner,” he told her. That was such a transparent lie, she didn’t even bother to dignify it with a response.

 

“We have a stressful job,” she said, and terrifyingly her voice went almost sympathetic on him. She sounded more understanding than she’d managed with Peter. “Don’t you need the outlet?”

 

“I have plenty of outlets,” he said. “Like kicking your ass in the boxing ring at Title.”

 

She rolled her eyes at him. “We need to find you someone you actually like. However impossible that may be.”

 

“Caroline, you have enough sex for the both of us,” Jefferson told her.

 

“I’ve actually thought about this a lot,” she continued, once again ignoring him. “I’m so curious who could possibly satisfy the mighty Jefferson Haines’ standards.”

 

It wasn’t like Caroline was _wrong,_ Jefferson could admit that. He wouldn’t mind getting laid, either. His last boyfriend had been… Jesus, months before they were partnered together. However well they knew each other, he’d never quite figured out how to explain to her how hard it was-- with the exception of a few nights where he’d had so much to drink he barely remembered things the next day-- for him to want to have sex with someone unless he really liked them. And he didn’t like a lot of people.

 

“You probably want someone taller than you, which is basically impossible,” she mused. “And you like muscles, right? That guy in P-town was jacked. I wonder if anyone on the Patriots is gay. We could probably pull some strings and figure it out.”

 

As she kept going, he couldn’t help the way his thoughts inevitably turned to Finny. An impromptu late-night pizza order; Finny grinning at him with a splash of sauce at the corner of his mouth that Jefferson had fought the urge to wipe away with the pad of his thumb. The end of a white sheet slipping tantalizingly off Finny’s shoulder while he struggled to pin it into something resembling a toga. The way Jefferson’s finger brushed against warm, bare skin when he crossed the room to help. He’d spent a _lot_ of time wanting to have sex when he was around Finny.

 

Speaking of Caroline, she elbowed him hard, a pointed jab to the forearm. “What’s with you today?” she demanded. “You did this earlier too, in the middle of the interview.”

 

That was a good fucking question. What was up with him today? That was twice now today that he’d thought of Finny. It had been _seven years_ since Jefferson last saw Finny in person; months since he last thought of him before this. Every time Jefferson thought he might finally be over it, might have _finally_ managed to move on, he was blindsided by yet another unwanted memory. The whole thing was infuriating. Last he’d heard, Finny was living in Philadelphia. All his efforts to reach out, make amends, had been ignored. They were never going to see each other again.  He couldn’t understand why the fuck he was still subject to be incapacitated by flashes of memory like this, particularly when he was on the _job._

“Nothing,” he said, unconvincingly. At a knowing look, he corrected: “It’s been a long day.”

 

“There’ll be a lot of long ones ahead,” she said, reaching across the table to pat him on the arm. She didn’t say _buck up, buddy,_ but it was implied. Jefferson got the hint and dragged his attention back to where it needed to be.

 

“Until we get this sick bastard,” Jefferson said, determinedly dragging his thoughts back to the case.

 

“Cheers to that,” Caroline said. They clinked glasses.


	3. Chapter 3

There were few tasks at work that Jefferson found as tedious as examining security tapes. Even paperwork could be interesting at times when he had to think about how to write a report so he could emphasize his role solving a case or to cover up a fuck-up, if needed. But there was very little brain power needed to watch raw footage. And it took _forever_. A single recorded minute could take 10 minutes to watch by the time Jefferson finished slowing the scene down, zooming in and out, and changing the angles. Multiplied by a 30-45 minute window of time in which the crime could’ve occurred and the eight different cameras in the immediate vicinity around the intersection where Henry had last been spotted, that was a lot of time sitting and staring at his monitor.

 

Jefferson sighed, turned up the Luke Bryan blasting through his headphones and adjusted his position so he could lean closer to the screen. This review could’ve been delegated to Special Agents Gilbert and Valdes, but neither Caroline nor Jefferson was good at giving up control, at least not on the important things, and right now this was their most promising lead.

 

For hours he sat exactly like that, watching cycle after cycle of pedestrians step up to the traffic light by Beverly Street, wait, and then cross over at the blinking white signal. The immediate aftermath of the game had been a complete shitshow. For a while after the final horn, pedestrians had spilled into the streets, blocking traffic while they walked in whatever direction they wanted across Causeway Street. That had helped Jefferson start to narrow down the timeframe he should be searching.

 

According to Peter’s account, his group of friends hadn’t made it out of the arena until after Traffic Control Officers managed (poorly, in Jefferson’s opinion) to get the crowds under control and normal traffic patterns were restored. That only saved Jefferson from having to look at a few hundred out of at least a thousand clips. For each clip remaining, he had to study freeze-frames of groups of dozens of people, all dressed almost identically, in the dark, searching for one or two familiar faces, one of which he’d only seen in person once, and the other he’d only ever seen in photos. It wasn’t an easy task.

 

He kept going like that, squinting at frame after frame, stopping countless times to look more closely at some white kid in his twenties that kind of looked like Peter, until his eyes started to burn with the effort. His lunch sat half-touched by his elbow. He’d had to piss for over an hour but kept putting it off, increasingly certain that the next frame would be the one.

 

Then finally all of his efforts paid off. Abruptly he sat up straighter, unconsciously reaching out to touch the screen. _There._ To the far right of the group waiting at the curb at timestamp _22:11_ , he could unquestionably make out Peter. Bo and Julie were a step behind him, both half-hidden by his body, and then another step behind them, even more concealed, was someone of the right height and weight to be Henry.

 

First, he watched it full-speed several times. To the naked eye, it was exactly as Peter and his friends had described it: they’d started across the street expecting Henry to follow, but Henry had never stepped off the sidewalk. Jefferson’s eyes kept focusing on movement-- the people flooding towards the entrance of the underground train station. It took a conscious effort to focus on inactivity; to keep his gaze where Henry stood. Only then did he catch the moment where Henry turned away from the street, attention caught by something happening at his back.

 

Jefferson slowed the footage down, zooming in as far as he could before it became too pixelated. No matter what adjustments he made, he couldn’t get the angle he needed. All he could see was that someone-- or something-- behind Henry distracted him enough that he looked away from his friends, keeping his attention long enough for him to miss the light. _Then what?_ That was the million dollar question. Whatever happened next, it was hidden by another wave of people leaving the arena and stepping up to the crosswalk. All those new bodies blocked the camera’s sight-line to Henry.

 

 Jefferson swore, slamming his mouse down hard. There would be many more cameras to check-- every possible camera en route from TD Garden to the Boston Harbor Hotel-- but he was certain that this was the best view for the final moments of Henry’s abduction. It was the closest, most direct line-of-sight from any building on that street, and it still wasn’t good enough.

 

__

 

Fortunately, Caroline’s efforts had proven more successful. After Jefferson finished his lunch and stepped outside briefly to get some fresh air and clear his head, she called him over to her desk to showcase what she’d discovered. She’d been tasked with sorting through footage from the hotel security cameras facing the stretch of Harborwalk where Henry’s body had been found.  He planted one hand on her desk and leaned forward, almost shoulder-to-shoulder with her so he could see while she cued her tape.

 

The timestamp on the video that began playing on her screen said _04:35._ Not much happened for the first few seconds. Jefferson stared at twinkling lights set against a dark backdrop.

 

“What am I looking for?” Jefferson asked after nothing immediately jumped out at him. There were lamps lit at regular intervals along the Harborwalk and the hotel’s signature arch was backlit, but the water beyond was pitch black.

 

“Wait for it,” Caroline said tolerantly. The corner of her mouth tugged upwards.

 

On cue, Jefferson noticed a hint of motion against the night. At once he could see pulses of light in the darkness, flickers like fireflies bursting into life before dying out again. Jefferson leaned even closer to the screen, jostling Caroline without meaning to. It was like running into a brick wall—the impact reverberated through him, but she didn’t seem to notice. As that distant beam of light grew closer, he realized what it was: a headlamp bobbing in gentle waves.

 

“Our perp came by _boat?”_ he asked. Despite himself, he was a little impressed. It was no easy feat to navigate the Boston Harbor, even by day, with so many moored boats and jutting wharves to navigate around. To move so confidently with limited visibility…

 

“He’s local,” Caroline said as if reading his mind. “Very familiar with this part of the city. If he’s an experienced sailor, he could be registered with one of the local boathouses or yacht clubs. That may help us narrow the search.”

 

On screen, the small boat came under the glow of the lamps lining the Harborwalk, about ten feet from the walkway where they’d been standing the morning Henry’s body was found. The outline of a man became visible, carefully steering in the direction of the dock.

 

“5’10?” Jefferson guessed. “160, 165 pounds?”

 

“I’d say so,” Caroline agreed.

 

There was a large mass in the boat behind the man. If it weren’t for the stripes of gold illuminated in the light, the lump would’ve blended in with the shadows. The small boat pulled in close to the seawall, presumably docking, and disappeared out of sight of the hotel’s security cameras, hidden by the seawall.

 

“Is there a camera at sea-level?” Jefferson asked.

 

“Yes,” Caroline said. Based on her tone, he didn’t need her to continue to know that bad news was coming. “This time of night, with no additional lighting, all it picks up is a few flashes of light.”

 

Jefferson groaned. “Amateur hour.”

 

“Seriously.”

 

On the keyboard, she typed a command to accelerate the footage. At _4:43_ , she resumed normal speed. They watched in silence as the little boat with its tiny bobbling light was swallowed back by the darkness, conspicuously absent its original cargo.

 

“You did good, Pelley,” Jefferson told Caroline as the footage returned to the cheerful view of warm lights bathing a quiet pathway. “We have the start of a physical profile. That’s something.”

 

“It is,” Caroline said. Out of the corner of his eye, Jefferson could see she was thinking, mouth pursed. “I think we’ve been going about this the wrong way,” she told Jefferson after a pause. “We’ve been too focused on the victim. But I don’t think it matters who Henry was.”

 

“You think he was randomly selected?” Jefferson clarified.

 

“Don’t you?”

 

Based on the sheer size of the crowd at the Bruins game, and the many possible exits someone could take from T.D. Garden, it was unlikely that someone would’ve been waiting outside for Henry specifically to leave. Plus, Henry’s friends had all testified that they’d had very limited interactions with people outside their group while at the game. Women were sometimes killed for nothing more than refusing a man’s attention, but that wasn’t something that happened to men. It was almost impossible to think of something else Henry could’ve done during the evening to incite some deranged person to murder, especially when Henry was cheering for the _home_ team.

 

“None of the victims have had anything in common,” Jefferson said slowly. “Not that we could find.”

 

“Except their gender, relative age, and _where_ they were found,” Caroline said.

 

“You want to focus on the neighborhoods nearby?” Jefferson asked. “That’s not narrowing things down much. We’re still talking tens of thousands of people.”

 

“I want to focus on the SFK’s movements,” she said, meaning _Smiley Face Killer._ “Where are the victims being taken? Where are they being found? What’s the estimated time of death? He’s not hunting these victims down, he’s randomly chancing upon them and taking advantage of the situation. If we can figure out his movements, we can put together a more complete profile of who he is.”

 

“Everyone has patterns,” Jefferson agreed. “Whether they know they do or not.”

 

“Exactly,” she said. “So far his tell me he spends a lot of time in a corridor between Back Bay, Beacon Hill, the North End, and the waterfront. I bet we can figure out even more.”

 

“Fuck yeah we can,” Jefferson said.

 

**

 

They had access to maps marking the locations of all the murder victims; both precise GIS and more practical Google Maps with pins denoting each victim. As Deputy Director Strait had covered extensively in his briefing, a majority of the bodies had been found in the upper Charles River Basin, particularly concentrated along the stretch of land near the State House where some of Boston’s wealthiest residents lived, along the Boston Harbor, close to the North End, known for its high density of Italian residents, and near the booming Financial District, where many young professionals in the city worked.

 

They could toggle pins on and off by the year as they tried to better understand how the Smiley Face Killer’s movements may have shifted over time. The technology was particularly useful to see the obvious clusters where the bodies had been discovered and to see the distances between where the victims were taken and where they were found. In some cases, the distances were upwards of a mile-and-a-half.

 

“I think he has access to a car,” Jefferson observed.

 

“I agree,” Caroline said. “If he does, that could tell us something about his financial situation.”

 

They both knew first-hand how much it cost ($350 a month, if not more) to park a car in Boston proper.

 

Jefferson stared at their map and the list of names, locations, dates and times beside each pin. Something was nagging at him. He had to take a few seconds to formulate his thoughts. “I think he’s holding the victims somewhere,” he finally realized. “There are a lot of gaps here… like on that security footage. Henry was last seen at _22:11_ , but the Boston Harbor Hotel cameras didn’t catch him until _04:35.”_

 

A wrinkle cut into Caroline’s brow. She took a second look at the screen. “Holding their bodies? Or holding them?” she asked.

 

“Is he killing them right off or keeping them around to chat, you mean?” Jefferson asked, stomach twisting. He had no idea what the better answer would be.  “I don’t know.”

 

**

 

While Jefferson knew he would be referencing those maps constantly in the weeks to come, over the years he’d spent with the Bureau he’d learned that looking at something on a screen was no substitute for seeing it in person. If they were going to retrace the steps of their killer, then he wanted to physically _retrace_ the steps, allowing himself to become fully submerged in the mind of the murderer.

 

Getting assistance with that involved unraveling a confusing mess of bureaucracy. The murders along the Harbor had taken place on City of Boston property, managed by the Boston Planning and Development Authority (BPDA). Each of the murders in the Charles River, meanwhile, although technically within the boundaries of Boston, had taken place on Massachusetts Department of Conservation and Recreation (DCR) land, a state entity. They requested meetings with the heads of both agencies to brief them on the case and request ongoing cooperation with the investigation.

 

The meeting with the Commissioner of the Department of Conservation and Recreation was scheduled first, for 08:30 the next morning, obviously wedged in before the start of the workday due to the last-minute nature of the request. The office was conveniently located on Causeway Street, no more than a block from where Henry had last been seen alive and only a two or three-minute walk from Jefferson and Caroline’s apartment building.

 

They met in the lobby at 08:20 to head over, giving themselves a couple of extra minutes in case they were held up by building security. The DCR offices were in an older, nondescript brick building with bands of tan over the windows. Compared to the sea of new construction around it, the building sat low on the skyline at only nine stories tall. After showing their IDs, they were directed to take the elevator to the top floor. Upon arriving on the ninth floor, they were promptly directed to the seventh floor, where the Commissioner’s office actually was.

 

Jefferson sighed in the elevator as it made its creaking way down the two floors. “Every freaking time,” he said.

 

Caroline only laughed at him.

 

“They should’ve put it in the damn calendar hold,” he insisted.

 

“They should’ve,” she agreed. “They never will,” she added, as the elevator doors opened.

 

“Sure won’t,” he said grumpily.

 

A plump woman in her mid-thirties sat behind the reception desk. “Good morning,” she said tightly, as if she wanted nothing less than to be sitting behind a desk greeting them.

 

“Good morning,” Jefferson said, pasting on his most charming smile.

 

She wasn't moved. The phone on the woman’s desk started ringing in a shrill tone, and although she ignored it to watch Jefferson warily-- like he might make a break for some off-limits area of the office if she looked away from him for a single second-- her expression became even more pinched at the sound.

 

Jefferson let the call ring through before he continued. “Agents Pelley and Haines here for Commissioner Morse.”

 

The phone started ringing again and the woman grimaced.

 

“Have a seat,” she told him. Then she lifted the receiver. “Department of Conservation and Recreation,” she answered.

 

The conversation went on for a while. From what little Jefferson could make of it, the person on the other end of the line was furious about something and was refusing to get off the line until directed higher up in the Department.

 

“She’s not here,” the receptionist kept saying. “I’ll _take_ a message.”

 

To kill time until they were escorted to their meeting, Jefferson pulled out his work cell and started scrolling through his email. His attention was immediately caught by an email that had come in overnight from the FBI’s Image Specialists. They’d sent high-resolution stills from Caroline’s security footage of the man in the boat. He would need to look at the photos on his desktop later, but he hoped they would provide a clear portrait of their suspect’s face from the moment when he’d been illuminated by the hotel’s lights. 

 

“Oh. They’re here?” a new voice asked. Although the guy was trying to keep his pitch low, it was obvious he was surprised to see them. He didn’t say ‘ _you could have told me,_ ’ but it was heavily implied in his tone. Even distracted by the images, something about that soft voice tugged at Jefferson as he zoomed in and out on the pictures in his inbox.

 

Then the person spoke more loudly, calling to Jefferson and Caroline from his spot by the reception desk. “The Commissioner sends her regrets. She’s been held up at a breakfast with the Neighborhoods Association all morning and won’t be able to join you today.”

 

A funny frisson of recognition went down Jefferson’s spine. His head snapped up and he almost dropped his phone as he stared, gaping in disbelief at the person speaking to them. Ten seconds ago, he’d been perfectly relaxed but now his heart was pounding. He didn’t need the lights going off on the fitness tracker on his wrist to tell him how much his pulse had just accelerated.

 

“I’ll be meeting with you in her stead. I’m--”

 

“Finny,” Jefferson managed, in a voice that didn’t sound like him at all.

 

One glance had been all it took for his world to tilt on its axis. Because that was inexplicably Finny standing there in the middle of a random government agency in Boston, struggling to hide the look of shock spreading across his own face. Their eyes locked across the drab waiting room.

 

A moment after Jefferson spoke, Finny seemed to shake his surprise, expression shifting to something more strained. “Fred,” he corrected, tearing his gaze off Jefferson. He turned towards Caroline instead, taking several steps forward to shake her hand. “Fred Ashley,” he said. “Chief of Staff to Commissioner Morse.”

 

“Special Agent Caroline Pelley,” she said. She looked equally curious and amused, although she was trying to hide both from Finny. “You can call me Caroline. Did Jefferson get your name wrong?”

 

“Old college nickname,” was all Finny said. He nodded in Jefferson’s direction, no longer making any eye contact with him. “Agent Haines. I didn’t realize you’d be in this meeting.” Once again his tone gave away how much he wished he’d been warned beforehand.

 

“I thought you lived in Philly,” Jefferson said, then immediately wanted to kick himself. He hadn’t meant to sound like he’d been keeping tabs. Fortunately, he managed to stop himself from asking _‘Why didn’t you tell me you moved back?’_ He knew why.

 

“Not anymore,” Finny said shortly. “If you two could follow me, I have a conference room reserved for this meeting.” He twisted, putting his back to them, and started walking down a long hallway.


	4. Chapter 4

For a moment Jefferson was frozen in place, watching as Finny kept walking down that gray, dimly-lit hallway. He worked his jaw, trying to loosen the sudden constriction of his throat. What had started as a dull ache in his chest was gradually worsening in its intensity. _Special Agent Haines_. That coolly polite tone hurt worse than a punch would’ve. Seven years hadn't been long enough to forget how Finny used to talk to him: bright and affectionate, like hanging out with Jefferson was the best part of his day; how he used to drag out all the syllables of Jefferson's name ( _Jeff_ -er- _son)_ , laughing, instead of trying to spit it out as quickly as possible, like he had in the reception area.

 

As much as he had missed Finny all this time, he'd never felt the sense of loss as acutely as in this moment, watching Finny walk away from him again; feeling the unforgiving and unwelcoming way Finny had been looking at him seared against the back of his eyelids. He might have stood there forever, knees locked, had Caroline not pushed past him, intentionally knocking her shoulder into his.

 

"You coming?" she asked. She didn't wait for an answer, heels clicking with her long strides as she followed Finny.

 

Caroline only ever wore high-heeled shoes when they had formal, important meetings such as this one. The rest of the time she usually wore black sneakers-- shoes that were comfortable and practical in case they had to take off running after some jackass.  The sight, along with the stiff weight of his own suit jacket and starched collar, was a pointed reminder that he was here because he had a job to do, not to wallow in self-recrimination and regret. He shuffled his feet until he was moving, trailing Caroline as she turned left at the end of the hallway towards a large open work area shared by dozens of cubicles, then made another left into a small conference room where Finny was standing by the door waiting for them. The room was on an interior wall lacking any windows and in the center was a heavy wooden table with enough spaces for six people.

 

When Jefferson stepped through the doorway their eyes locked again, from a much closer distance this time, close enough that time seemed to freeze as Jefferson saw the sepia tones of Finny’s eyes as vibrantly as if they were splashed across a South End gallery wall. There was a depth to that brief gaze, an unreadable emotion that Jefferson had no illusions was something fond, but didn't seem entirely negative, either. Maybe it was something like reminiscence-- a long time ago, Jefferson had been the best friend Finny had. They had plenty of good memories together, shared over three years, to balance the final day of their friendship. There had to be something about him Finny remembered warmly.

 

Or maybe he was deluding the hell out of himself.

 

Since he couldn't stare at Finny forever, trying to see if he could find any hint that Finny missed the effortless rapport they used to have, Jefferson continued into the room, taking the seat next to Caroline; the one closer to the door. Although it was further inside the room, Finny took the seat across from her-- making sure, Jefferson thought, that he wouldn’t have to look at Jefferson as much. It gave Jefferson the opportunity to unabashedly watch him, drinking in every detail.

 

Time had changed Finny very little from the guy who’d so thoroughly captured, then held, Jefferson’s attention in college. He’d aged into his looks, sure-- the baby fat that had stubbornly clung to his cheeks for so long had finally melted away, leaving him more handsome than youthful-- but he still looked achingly familiar; the same person Jefferson had seen nearly every day sophomore through senior year. Finny was almost a foot shorter than Jefferson, with a wiry runners build, every muscle streamlined for speed. His cheeks were perpetually tinged pink by the sun, even now, coming off another brutal Boston winter, short brown hair kissed golden when the light hit just right. Several feet of snow never stopped Finny from putting in the miles outside.

 

The biggest difference was in how he dressed. Long gone were the t-shirts and baggy gym shorts they’d all worn most of the time, too lazy to put in any effort for class or studying. Today, Finny was dressed sharply in a slim-fit blue dress shirt, skinny pink tie, and fitted slacks, strung with a brown belt. His shoes were obviously high quality, trimmed around the edges with a gold bar across each toe. He looked… professional was the only word for it; exactly like someone who was 28 with a respectable job should. As much as Jefferson usually hated wearing his suit, he was suddenly grateful to have it on today. Grateful too, that Caroline had convinced him to take to the time to get it tailored. 

 

They’d been apart longer than they'd known each other. There had been plenty of time for Jefferson to get over his fixation with Finny ‘Fred’ Ashley. At some point, he’d even managed to convince himself he’d moved on.  A single look shared across an office lobby was all it took to show him exactly how wrong he had been. Like it had been so many years ago, his body was perfectly tuned to Finny. He forgot to breathe when Finny spoke. It felt like Finny’s body was giving off a static energy so that whenever he so much as shifted, Jefferson felt a crackling awareness against his skin. Any moment Finny’s attention wasn’t on him, he wanted it back.

 

"Thank you for taking this meeting on such short notice," Caroline opened, once they were all seated.

 

“It was no trouble," Finny said. He pulled a yellow legal pad out of his messenger bag and placed it on the table, resting his forearms on either side. In a seemingly unconscious motion, he started twirling a BIC pen between the thumb and index finger of his left hand. His fingers were long, nails neatly trimmed. Jefferson got distracted studying the coarse hair below his knuckles. "As I mentioned, Commissioner Morse regrets that she wasn't able to join us. She’s asked me to let you know that you'll have the full cooperation of the Department during the investigation.”

 

"We appreciate that," Caroline said. She turned her head, looking expectantly at Jefferson. It took him a second too long to return her gaze.

 

Caroline gave him exactly that one second, if not less, and then she discreetly rolled her eyes at him before returning her attention to Finny. "Jefferson and I are leading the investigation of a series of murders in Boston over the last 15 years. We’re seeking a man who we’ve dubbed the ‘Smiley Face Killer’. His calling card-- which has become increasingly visible in size and proximity to the bodies -- is the drawing of a smiley face symbol. He exclusively targets men between the ages of 20 and 35 and although the causes of death vary, he always stages the bodies in local waterways.”

 

Oh. Well, shit. On the walk over from their apartment, Caroline and Jefferson had decided that Jefferson would kick-off the meeting, introduce the two of them, and provide the background on the case. Jefferson had dropped the ball on this one.

 

"I did some reading on the case last night when the meeting request came through," Finny said. "I wasn't able to find much. Most of what's online seems to be unsubstantiated rumors.”

 

Knowing him, or the way he used to be, at least, that probably meant he’d stayed up half the night committing a good portion of information to memory. If Jefferson studied him without the rose-colored lenses of an unexpected and much hoped-for reunion, he could see that Finny looked tired. There were faint lines at the corners of his eyes and the barest hint of shading under them, skin like a freshly dropped peach set to bruise later.

 

“Most details of the murders have been kept away from public scrutiny," Caroline explained. "Police Commissioner Beau has denied in several high-profile interviews that there’s a serial killer at work. We expect that to change quickly, especially since our killer has already escalated the visibility of his work and is expected to continue to do so.”

 

"I see," Finny said. The skin on his nose crinkled as he thought. It was a hopelessly charming tic Jefferson had seen him make a hundred times over. "I’d like for the Department to be helpful but I'm not sure how. We're not State Police-- we have no oversight for safety in the park.”

 

Jefferson got the fuck over himself and joined the meeting. "As Caroline noted, the bodies have been staged primarily in two places: the Harbor-- where the most recent one was discovered two days ago-- and along the Charles River. In your jurisdiction.”

 

That sounded weird, strangely accusatory in a way he hadn't meant. Having Finny here was completely throwing him off.

 

"I’m aware of what’s in our jurisdiction," Finny said dryly.

 

Jefferson continued as if Finny hadn’t spoken, mostly to cover his own discomfort: "We are requesting your help viewing the sites along the Charles where any bodies were discovered-- by water, if possible; the way the perp would’ve approached-- as well as the facilitation of interviews with any staff who made the discoveries. Judging by the police reports I've seen, there were at least two."

 

”Okay,” Finny said. He had been avoiding looking directly at Jefferson as the meeting began, but his eyes suddenly skittered towards him as if curiosity has gotten the better of him. His lashes looked particularly long when he did that, splayed across his cheeks. "By water?" he asked.

 

"We have reason to believe he is an experienced sailor," Caroline said. “Or at least comfortable on the water.”

 

Finny made a strange face as she spoke. “That would make sense,” he said.

 

“Do you also sail?” Caroline asked with her usual uncanny perception.

 

“I’ve been learning,” Finny said, still visibly distracted by something. “It’s weird to think…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Jefferson thought he could fill it in anyway: _That a serial killer could be using my boathouse._ Something like that.

 

Finny was always prone to over-worry about things, however unlikely they were to happen. From now on, whenever he went to his sailing lessons, he was going to be jumping at shadows, wondering about who could be lurking around every corner. The urge to say something reassuring was almost overwhelming. He ignored it, knowing it wouldn’t be well-received.

 

“Do you have a map of the Charles River locations?” Finny asked. “I could probably sail you there myself depending on where they are.”

 

“We do,” Jefferson said, at the same time Caroline said, “Yes”.  He twisted, reaching into his bag for the roll of ledger papers he’d printed before this meeting. It felt good to be useful.

 

There was a copy for each of them so Jefferson unfortunately didn’t have an excuse to go around the table and lean over Finny’s shoulder while he explained the various markers on the map. Instead, he slid one copy across the wide table to Finny, stealing another look in the process, and passed the extra to his partner.

 

Finny pulled his copy closer, glanced at it briefly, then leaned down to dig in his bag again. He emerged with a pair of square-frame glasses in hand and slide them on. Those were new. They didn’t help the problem Jefferson was having trying not to look at him too much.

 

“Each spot represents a location where a body was discovered,” Caroline explained. “We’re most interested in the yellow stars. Those were more recent-- within the last five years.”

 

She kept going, expanding on each of those locations and what they would be looking for on a tour. In essence, it was another effort to get into the mind of the killer and learn his habits: Why had he chosen those particular locations? What direction had he approached from the water? When exactly had the escalation in scale of his calling card began?

 

It was instinctual to follow along on his own copy, which was good because it kept him from staring at Finny in those damn glasses even longer. They were a physical manifestation of the quiet, studious kid Jefferson had first met at Rush; the one he’d dedicated so much of his time to push, prod, and goad into having a little _fun_ from time to time. The same kid who’d determinedly made sure Jefferson kept up the kind of grades he’d eventually needed to be accepted the Academy.  

 

For each of those yellow stars, he could summon the memory of a photo to match. He knew the bio of each of those victims by heart:

 

_Randall Alan | 35 | Mixed race | Husband and father_

_Omar Halim | 27 | Syrian | Researcher at Biogen, a major pharmaceutical company in Cambridge_

_Gregory Jackson | 21 | Caucasian | Student at Boston College-- where both Finny and Jefferson had gone to school_

 

Three men with dramatically different backgrounds who were taken from streets that even at the times when Gregory and Omar went missing, when it was dark, should’ve been teeming with people. Randall had been taken at twilight on what should’ve been one of the safest running routes in Boston. It was confoundingly random and almost terrifyingly competent. Jefferson wanted this sick bastard locked up as soon as possible.

 

The sense of eyes on him re-captured his attention. Jefferson tuned back into the meeting, only to find that Caroline and Finny were still speaking, neither of them paying any attention to him at all.

 

“I’ll go through our incident reports from the field,” Finny said. Apparently they’d moved on from covering the map. “I can share contact information for the employees who reported the bodies.”

 

“That would be great,” Caroline said.

 

“We’ll also follow up with a few times that might work for a tour of the park,” Jefferson told him, heart already speeding up in anticipation. The last thing he wanted to do was leave this room-- leave Finny-- when fate had _finally_ thrown them back together again. He was already anxious to be together again and grateful to have a legitimate excuse to push for it.

 

“If you wouldn’t feel comfortable sailing us yourself, let us know,” Caroline said. “We can enlist the cooperation of CBI.”

 

She meant Community Boating, Inc-- a local boathouse open to the public for instruction, where Finny was likely taking his lessons. They’d need to enlist CBI’s cooperation anyway, in order to get a full list of all registered sailors and students.

 

“It should be fine,” Finny said. His eyes flicked briefly to Jefferson, a glancing look so quick Jefferson might have missed it if he blinked. 

 

“Thank you, Finny,” Jefferson said.

 

“Fred,” Finny corrected, eyes narrowing.

 

“Sure,” Jefferson said. He’d called Finny ‘Fred’ maybe twice that he could remember, both times before they’d really known each other. He couldn’t remember how the nickname had started-- one of the pledge masters had made it up most likely-- but it had been irrevocably locked into his memory after the night during hazing when they’d been shut in the house basement with a group of other pledges, standing in a line wearing nothing but their boxes as fraternity brothers dumped buckets of ice water over their heads and screamed at them every time they shivered.

 

Hazing. Now that had been some fun times. He’d almost rather have to relive those days than be here, having this horribly awkward conversation. At least back then Finny hadn’t been staring at Jefferson like he wanted to hate him. That night, the place where their elbows kept brushing together was the only part of Jefferson’s body that was warm.

 

Jefferson steeled himself. Ignoring that it was borderline unprofessional while on the job; ignoring that he was setting himself up to be rejected in front of the one person who wouldn’t hesitate to remind him of it every time they had a drink for the rest of their lives, he asked: “Do you have time to grab a coffee? Catch up?”

 

An agonizing silence followed. Jefferson took a deep breath and tried not to look either nervous or hopeful. He wished it wouldn’t be weird to put his official shades on inside. That mix of curiosity and amusement from earlier was pouring off Caroline in waves. Once they left this building, Jefferson was in for an interrogation of his own.

 

“I don’t,” Finny said. That was all.

 

Maybe that had been a bad way to phrase the question. Finny could genuinely have more work to get back to. The phones in the office were still ringing off the hook. If so, Finny could’ve offered another time, but…Jefferson probably owed it to him to grovel.

 

“Another time this week?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

 

Finny swallowed, something flashing across his eyes before he closed them. When he opened them again, he looked more frustrated than anything. He spoke slowly, obviously choosing his words carefully. “I’m happy to cooperate with anything you need for the investigation,” he said. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a business card, pointedly only handing one to Caroline. “Here’s my contact information for any follow-up.”

 

Humiliation sparked in Jefferson’s stomach, the burn of it spreading rapidly.  “I know I…” he started, voice husky.

 

Caroline ruthlessly cut him off. Whether she was looking out for him or for the case, it was probably for the better. “We appreciate your help, Fred,” she said. “We’ll be in touch soon to confirm next steps.”

 

Finny looked far more relieved than Jefferson thought was warranted. Some of the tension across his shoulders visibly eased. “You know the way out?” he checked.

 

“Yes,” Caroline said, while Jefferson stood there like an idiot, grinding his teeth against all the things he wanted to say that Caroline would definitely deck him for. She dug her elbow into Jefferson’s side, urging him to move back towards the sea of cubicles and the hall to the lobby.

 

**

 

The silence in the elevator was oppressive. Neither of them said a word until they’d crossed Causeway Street and entered their apartment lobby where they had to take another elevator down to their cars. 

 

Jefferson felt uncharacteristically depressed, already exhausted even though it was barely 09:00. He  kept needing to remind himself that they would see Finny again. This wasn’t his last chance to make things right. Finny had promised to help them with the case and he wasn’t going to risk letting innocent people die because he had a grudge against Jefferson.

 

“You’re driving,” he told Caroline, even though it was his week on.

 

“Fine,” she said sounding admirably restrained.

 

The elevator door opened, spitting them out to the industrial below-ground level where their cars were parked about 30 spaces apart. As soon as they could see her gleaming white Jeep Cherokee, it was as if the dams had burst.

 

“Was that your ex-boyfriend?” she asked in a tone that was unfairly scandalized for someone he knew for a fact once had to interview a guy she’d banged before.

 

“No,” he said. If only.

 

“I think it was,” she said. “I’ve never seen you that uncomfortable in a meeting before, _Agent Haines_.”

 

He stifled the urge to flinch. “He wasn’t.”

 

“You just fucked him then?”

 

Jefferson did cringe then. “Christ, Caroline. No. He was just my roommate. In college.”

 

They approached Caroline’s car and at the flashing tail lights that signaled she’d unlocked it, he slid into the passenger seat. “And you had a thing for him?” she guessed once she was behind the wheel.

 

“I don’t want to talk about it, Agent Pelley,” he told her, in a terse voice. Except he kind of did. He hadn’t talked to anyone about this in seven years. Part of him was dying to talk about it. What he really wanted was to go home, change into his sweats, have a few beers, and then talk about it.

 

“You did,” she said with supreme confidence. “Is that seriously your type, Jefferson?” she asked delightedly. “Nerd chic? Skinny boys? Wow, I had that wrong. I was really banking on a Julian Edelman type.”

 

Jefferson didn’t dignify that with a response.

 

“So what-- you told him and he wasn’t into it?” she continued anyway.

 

“You’re a fucking bloodhound,” he told her, shifting in his seat. He stared fixedly out the window even though they were still underground so there was nothing to look at except concrete pillars and dozens of parked cars. “And no-- I don’t know if he knew. I never told him.” His fist was clenched in his lap. He forced himself to relax. “I know he wasn’t into me.”

 

“Well he was _pissed._ You must’ve been a really shitty roommate,” she told him as the first beams of sunlight told him they were approaching the exit to the garage. That was her cutting him a favor and dropping the subject. For now, at least. He was certain it would come back up eventually. She wouldn’t be a very good Federal Agent if she couldn’t tell there was more to this story.

 

“Guess so,” Jefferson said, playing along. He crossed his arms across his chest, leaned his head back against the rest, closed his eyes, and resisted the urge to sigh.

 

“I can’t wait for that sailing trip,” she said. “You better not make an ass of yourself.”

 

“Don’t let me then,” Jefferson said. Judging by how today had gone, odds were high that he was going to make an _enormous_ ass of himself. Every time he tried to think about how to make their next meeting go better, he came up blank. He wanted things to be better with Finny so much it choked him, overriding all rational thought. He didn’t trust that he could talk like a normal person if they were in the same room together. “That’s what partners are for.”

 

“Okay Jay,” she said indulgently. The first light they stopped at, she reached over and patted him briefly on the knee, more gentle than she usually was with him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small TW: this chapter contains language that could possibly be considered fat-shaming (Caroline is goading Jefferson to go to the gym)

It was a long day at work. Jefferson spent most of his morning contacting local boathouses, of which there were many -- Boston University Sailing, MIT Sailing, Harvard Sailing, Union Boat Club, and Community Boating, all on a two-mile stretch of the river-- requesting a complete copy of each of their membership databases. As the lists came in, he spent hours sorting and cleaning them. Most of the information was incomplete and all of the sets came in different formats that he had to reconcile. Even filtering by gender and age left them with a daunting list of potential suspects to investigate. And there was always the chance their suspect wasn’t officially registered anywhere.

 

Around noon, Caroline emailed Finny to thank him for their morning meeting and copied Jefferson. He’d been able to feel her glee as she was typing the note even through the divider wall separating their desks. She was simultaneously teasing him for finally showing an interest in someone, flaunting that she got to be the one to contact Finny and he didn’t, and taking what seemed to be a genuine interest in trying to help him, practically winking at him with every keystroke.

 

In response, Finny shared contact information for the two maintenance staff who’d reported finding bodies on DCR land. Jefferson reached out to both of them to schedule interviews while Caroline got to keep emailing Finny, coordinating a water-based tour of the river. Within a couple of hours, they’d locked in a date and time: Tuesday at 13:00. Five days away. Five _long_ days away. As soon as that was scheduled, Jefferson lost a good hour of his day trying-- and failing-- not to think about what could happen on that sailing trip.

 

Was he kidding himself here? Was there a realistic chance Finny would be any less angry the next time they met? It was hard to be optimistic. Finny was impossibly stubborn when he dug his heels in. Plus the next time they saw each other, Jefferson wouldn’t have the element of surprise on his side anymore. On Tuesday, Finny would know to expect him.

 

Despite how important this case was-- the PR disaster it was building up to be once the public got word of how long it’d been kept under wraps-- they had other assignments on their plates, too, particularly a set of upcoming trials to prepare for. The more wholeheartedly they focused on finding the Smiley Face Killer, the more Jefferson got behind on everything else, so while they were in a lull between data analysis and interview coordination, he did his best to catch up on what he could. He grabbed a tasteless pre-made sandwich from the cafeteria and kept his head down, attempting to focus.

 

**

 

At 19:30, Caroline came to claim him, getting his attention by reaching around him and shutting off his computer monitor.

 

“Hey!” he protested, even though for the last fifteen minutes all he had done was stare at a particularly long and boring email while remembering how nice Finny’s legs had looked in his fitted dress pants. “I’m not coming tonight,” he told her, realizing belatedly what she wanted. Considering how miserable he felt, the last thing he wanted to do was go to the boxing studio with her. Increasingly what he really wanted wasn’t that beer he’d been craving earlier, it was a shot of something _strong_. “I’ll take an Uber home.”

 

“Nope,” she said. “Come on, fatass. We missed our workout this morning to go chat with your boyfriend.”

 

“I should report you,” Jefferson told her, blinking away the crust of too much time staring at a computer screen. “All you do is harass me.”

 

“Do it you big baby,” she said, physically pulling his chair backwards until he couldn’t reach his keyboard.

 

Jefferson would never tell her this, because she might actually kick his ass like she always threatened to do, but a good 20% of his motivation for going to the gym was making sure no one could argue that his female partner was stronger than him. Equally, maybe, but not stronger.

 

He flipped her off with both hands and she took advantage of his preoccupation to snatch the bag resting next to his desk and stride off down the corridor with it. “You’re such a witch,” he called after her.

 

“I think you mean bitch,” she told him, sounding pleased with herself. Reluctantly, he hopped out of his chair to follow.

 

When he caught up to her and snatched his bag back using a loose strap, she looked thoughtful in a way that didn’t bode well. Caroline wasn’t prone to overthinking anything. She tended to go with her gut and employ a blunt strike, verbal or physical, aimed at maximum effect with as little effort as possible. “I guess it wouldn’t be a fair fight if you’re too busy drooling over a suspect,” she said, almost sweetly, loudly enough to be heard by anyone still working on their floor.

 

Despite his better judgement, Jefferson let himself be baited. “I wasn’t drooling,” he argued.

 

Her smile was brilliant, the pale purple lipstick she’d been wearing all day still perfectly intact. “So you’re coming to the gym?”

 

***

 

Only once they had changed, wrapped their hands, and were several minutes into a session did the rest of what Caroline had said back in the office sink in. “What do you mean Finny’s a suspect?” he demanded, throwing a brutal right hook that she weathered with a firm stance.

 

She was holding the pads for him while he threw punches. When he got tired, they’d switch and he’d block for her.

 

“Of course he is,” she said. He lobbed two more right hooks and then a left. Since punching with his left arm-- his weaker arm-- didn’t make the satisfying _thwack_ he liked, Jefferson kept up that rhythm for a while: _right, right, right, left, right, right, right, left_. She gave him an annoyed look when one of his punches finally had enough force to push the pad she was holding closer to her chest. Then she squared her feet again, bent her knees slightly, and looked determined. She timed each of her arguments to match the impacts. “Let’s see: he’s the right height and weight, he’s white, he sails, he volunteered for this meeting with us, his supervisor was conveniently nowhere to be seen, and he’s familiar with the parks. Right now he might be our number one suspect.”

 

“No,” Jefferson said, shaking his head emphatically. Sweat was beading at his temple now. A drop of it that was clinging to a strand of his hair fell, landing on his cheek, and then curled under his jaw. He could feel the spots where his damp shirt clung to his lower back. “He’s not our guy. I know him.”

 

“He looked like he wanted to murder you today,” she pointed out.

 

Jefferson switched to a combination of uppercuts and jabs. It was no coincidence that the uppercut was his hardest strike. “He couldn’t hurt anyone. He doesn’t have it in him.”

 

She tossed her long ponytail, weathering the barrage of blows. “Maybe he’s changed. Maybe you don’t know him as well as you think you do.”

 

“He hasn’t been living in Boston. He doesn’t fit the pattern,” he said, finding an entirely new pool of strength to tap. His next uppercut forced her back a step.

 

“He lived here when you were in college,” she pointed out. “During one of the peaks for the murders. You know the killings had slowed over the last few years before this recent escalation. Maybe he was flying back for visits in between. Do his parents still live up here? We could correlate the visits.”

 

They did.

 

“You’re wrong,” Jefferson said, almost viciously. He lifted his arm at an awkward angle so he could wipe his forehead on the sleeve of his shirt. The thick red glove on his hand had started to feel like it was weighing down his arm.

 

She only shrugged. “Maybe. _Someone_ should be considering it.”

 

***

 

Although he wouldn’t have admitted it out loud because he was pissed with her and didn’t want to validate her underhanded techniques to get him to spar with her, he did feel better by the time he showered and made it home to his apartment. The high of the workout had put him in a better mood and given him a second wave of energy. Afterwards, he felt up to tackling one of his long-neglected Blue Apron meals: pan-seared scallops in butter with orzo and a side of lemon and rosemary brussel sprouts.  While he cooked, he downed that beer he’d wanted for so much of the day. Then once the meal was finished, he sat down with another beer, kicked his feet up, and dug in. The dinner was rich and filling, immensely satisfying after the long day and hard workout.

 

It was only after he’d scraped his plate clean, when his stomach was full and he’d gotten comfortable, slouching in his chair, that all the productive energy he’d been leaning on left him in a rush. In the time it took him to drop his plate in the sink, he went from feeling pleased with himself, ready to tackle just about anything, to absolutely drained, strangely depressed again. Out of nowhere, he couldn’t stop thinking about it: about the day; about Finny.

 

Since when did Finny live in Boston? How had he not known Finny had moved back? Despite everything, it was still hard to believe Finny hadn’t reached out upon his return. They used to be inseparable. There had been a time, years ago, when it would’ve been almost impossible to believe they’d ever be this estranged. When Finny had been weighing job opportunities their last year of college, he’d initially chosen _Boston,_ in part because it meant they’d be closer together. Hundreds, if not thousands, of his happiest memories revolved around Finny. Like:

 

Finny twisting at the waist from the pitcher’s mound, using his non-gloved hand to shoot Jefferson a quick thumbs-up during a game of intramural softball. Those uniforms had been ridiculously flattering on Finny’s lean body -- tight pants highlighting the taut muscles of his thighs and quads, knee-high socks giving him a… the only description Jefferson could think of was ‘school-girl’ look, as ridiculous as that sounded. It had been exactly as hot as the equivalent straight man’s fantasy. Every game, Jefferson worried he was going to drop a fly ball, stuck looking at Finny’s ass.

 

Or late nights studying together at the kitchen table in the frat house. Finny had only been willing to go out on Saturday nights if they both had all their reading done for the week. In Finny-logic, Sundays were rest days, meant for long runs, cooking, and anything that wasn’t school work so Jefferson couldn’t get away with pushing everything off until the last possible moment. Most weeknights when the house was quiet, Jefferson had dragged his ass downstairs to sit and read American History, watching Finny try and pretend he wasn’t nodding off across his political theory textbook. The times when Finny was tired, strangely, had always disarmed Jefferson the most. Watching Finny knuckle at his eyes or slump, the elbow bracing his arms sliding an inch further away, had always made his chest clench, his stomach flip with the urge to carry Finny upstairs to bed, and tip him into his bed to sleep.

 

Or Finny absolutely plastered after a day of tailgating, leaning against Jefferson while they waited to get into Alumni Stadium. Finny’s obsession with running always counted against him on days like those. He could never pack on any weight, which made him one of the biggest lightweights Jefferson had ever known. Two beers in, Finny was all stumbling and dimples. Whenever Finny got drunk it usually meant Jefferson _didn’t_ , because he wound up devoting most of his attention to making sure Finny didn’t end up passing out in a dark corner somewhere. What a change-- he’d gone from protecting Finny from having dicks drawn on his face to protecting strangers from being murdered on the streets.

 

He realized he was smiling faintly, staring absently into the amber liquid in his glass. They’d had fun, him and Finny. All of the other brothers had known they were a package deal. You wanted one of them to prank a pledge, you had to get the other onboard. It had been the two of them against the world, like it was now with Caroline in a lot of ways. God, she lived five floors door from him, it wasn’t like he was ever _alone._ But still, he just missed Finny. All the time. Even today, sitting three feet across a table from him.

 

How had it gotten so screwed up, so abruptly? That memory was five times as vivid as the good ones: Finny’s whole body went mottled red when he was angry. There had been blotches of color on his cheeks, his neck, and chest when he’d been yelling at Jefferson: “I thought you were different! I thought you were better than the rest of them!”

 

Outside of a few times when Finny got hot-headed over a bad call during a softball game, mouthing off a little, Jefferson had never seen him do anything like yell. Before senior year, he might’ve said Finny wasn’t capable of yelling. He would’ve been wrong. That night, Finny had been so angry his voice changed, dipped several notes lower to something rough, like the scraping sounds old trucks made passing by on the road out front of the house. In those moments, and only then, maybe he could’ve sounded like someone who could believably be a suspect in a murder investigation.

 

Over the course of one night-- a drop in the bucket in the amount of time they’d known each other-- he’d lost his best friend, lost him for good. Their relationship had gone to radio silence on Finny’s end; not a single call, text, or email to fill the sudden vacancy in his life. That was why he’d emphasized so much with Peter McDonnell, the witness to Henry O’Brien’s disappearance: he knew what it was like to gradually have to come to terms with the knowledge that you were never going to see someone you loved again.

 

Except somehow he had seen Finny again-- _was_ going to see Finny again. It was hard not to put stock in that. It felt like it was meant-to-be: seeing Finny in an office building not even five minutes from his apartment. Jefferson was going to do his best to make the most of the second chance he’d been given.

 

**

 

Their meeting with the Boston Planning and Development Authority (BPDA) about the murders along the Harborwalk wasn’t nearly as… eventful as the one with the Department of Conservation and Recreation had been. Coincidentally they also met with someone junior to the Agency Director, although in this case it was the Director of Planning, Tara Green, a woman closer in age to Deputy Director Strait than Caroline and Jefferson. Like Finny, she offered the full cooperation of the agency and a tour by boat of the Harborwalk locations. Looking at the map with her was more of an interactive activity; however. Once they’d walked her through the drop sites, she wanted their feedback on how to make the area safer, whether it was adding lighting, more cameras, scheduling nighttime patrols, or something else.

 

“Some of the most expensive buildings in Boston per square foot are being built near here,” Tara said. “The tax revenue from the construction is essential to fund city services. The Harborwalk cannot be a place where people go to leave _bodies.”_

 

“Because property values are what matter when people are dying,” Jefferson said, feeling disgusted, once they were back in the car, en-route to the office.

 

Caroline had redone her hair sometime after work the day before. Today it was in an intricate series of braids wrapped up in a giant bun on top of her head. As he drove, he could constantly see that black mound in the corner of his eye. “I liked her,” she said. “She knew what she wanted and went for it.”

 

“She wasted our time in the middle of a murder investigation,” Jefferson said. They crossed onto the bridge from Charlestown to Chelsea and the beautiful glittering water of the Boston Harbor filled the view on either side of the car.

 

“Yeah, well she helped us too,” Caroline told him. “She’s scheduling a tour for us. She’s doing everything your boy _Fred_ is.”

 

She was getting that tone with him-- the one that usually ended in a lecture on women’s rights. He adopted an intentionally indulgent tone, intended mostly to piss her off. “No, Caroline, I probably wouldn’t have said that if she was a man,” he drawled.

 

The ensuing punch was harder than he had been expecting. “Jesus,” he complained, fighting the urge to jerk the wheel. “I’m going 70. You could have killed us!”

 

“Good thing you have such great reflexes,” she said, in a saccharine tone.

 

“Yes, good thing,” Jefferson said dryly. His arm throbbed. “Do you have to hit me so much? _That’s_ something a man can’t get away with. I can’t even retaliate.”

 

“You can hit me as much as you want at Title,” she said. “You just suck at it.”

 

“No, you’re just a monster.”

 

A few months ago Jefferson had knocked one of the instructors at the boxing ring, a 240 pound, muscular African American man named Ray, flat on his ass in a practice bout. Meanwhile, the step backwards he’d forced Caroline to take yesterday was about the best he ever got on her.

 

“It keeps me up sometimes,” she continued, ignoring him. “Thinking about what kind of entitled white man you would be if you’d never been partnered with me.” She paused, as if thinking. “You’re still an asshole, don’t get me wrong. Just not as bad as you could be.”

 

Jefferson couldn’t fight back a grin. The rest of the residual irritation he’d been feeling towards Caroline since she’d argued with him about Finny finally drained out of him. “I would be lost without you, Caroline Pelley,” he told her.

 

If anything, seeing Finny again had made him appreciate that. His years at the Bureau before he met her had been lonely, he realized now. He couldn’t remember doing much of anything besides work those years.

 

“Awww,” she said theatrically. “You love me, Jefferson Haines, you really do.”

 

“God help me,” he said, huffing a laugh.


	6. Chapter 6

Jefferson spent the day before they were due to meet Finny at his boathouse—a day when he was already going a little out of his mind with restless energy—working on a PowerPoint presentation of all things. Their full case team, Special Agents Gilbert and Valdés included, was scheduled to brief Deputy Director Strait on their progress in the investigation at the end of the week. It hadn’t taken many months of working with their boss to learn his preferred method of having information summarized for him. The monotony of formatting the slides was weirdly soothing, even if he did wish he was out in the city doing something instead of stuck at his desk. Every text block had to be perfectly aligned, all the fonts had to be uniform, and there absolutely couldn’t be any spelling or grammar issues.

So far, Jefferson had 9 slides:

 

 _ Title Slide: _ _‘Boston’s Smiley Face Killer’ -- What We Know_

 

_ Agenda Slide _

 

Agenda slides were pretty stupid, he thought. You’d learn what was being covered in the meeting as the meeting took place. Why would you need to be told in advance what was going to happen? He’d received enough lectures on the subject; however, to know better than to leave it out, so he dutifully listed the remaining slides in the presentation.

 

_ Research conducted to date _

 

This slide covered the work Caroline and Jefferson had done so far. It was everything he could think to list: interviews with the people who’d known Henry O’Brien; interviews with park staff; data gathering from the boathouses; and the security footage analysis.

 

_ Research conducted to date, continued _

 

This slide would be filled in by Special Agents Gilbert and Valdés.While Jefferson and Caroline focused on the most recent murders and worked to build a profile for the perp, Gilbert and Valdés had been carefully making their way through the files from earlier murders. He’d asked them to keep their summary to one slide, but they were almost certainly going to send him more and then he’d have find a way to consolidate without offending them.

 

Until Henry’s death, and the Smiley Face Killer’s dramatic graffiti signature, the Boston Police Department hadn’t been willing to classify any of the bodies being found as murders. The police had been adamant that there was no connection between the various young men who had turned up drowned in the Charles River. Even in situations where foul play was suspected, the notion of a serial killer had been dismissed. The tiny smiling faces found near some of the bodies could be coincidental, the police argued. Smiley faces were one of the most common forms of graffiti on earth.

 

Since that bias might have skewed the investigation, the agents were reopening each old case and taking a hard look, reexamining evidence in a new light. Where necessary, they were re-interviewing the friends and families of the victims, looking for information that might’ve been missed on the first go-round.

 

The clues they were catching were most often in the erratic movements of the victims prior to their deaths. One went missing near Fenway Park and turned up miles away by Christopher Columbus Park in the North End. Another was drinking at a bar near Chinatown but was found near the Charles River Dam-- an incomprehensible distance for someone to go willingly on a frigid winter day when in the process he’d pass dozens of other access points to the water. They’d already figured out that the Smiley Face Killer was moving his victims and likely holding them alive for hours. Privately, Jefferson thought the sick fuck got off on it-- dragging out the deaths, reveling in the final hours of the victim's lives before he ended them. The autopsy results for Henry O’Brien had given them the evidence to support that: time of death had been placed between 01:00 and 03:00, not 22:00 when he disappeared.

It was a lot of information to distill to a single slide of bullet points. They’d sent him a 15-page briefing document to review ahead of their pre-meeting before Friday’s big meeting and he’d blocked most of his afternoon to read it. Jefferson just didn’t want to be stuck meeting with Deputy Director Strait any longer than they had to. They had to strike a delicate balance: they had to give him enough information that he would be pleased with the headway they’d made, but not so much that he could start nitpicking their decisions or grow inspired to send them down some crazy rabbit-hole.

The next slide slide was a full screen still of the video Caroline had discovered; the basis for their physical profile of the killer. The image showed the moment when the suspect was caught half in the lights from the Harborwalk walkway, standing exposed in his tiny motorboat.

 

_ Physical profile _

Jefferson wrote:

  * _Roughly 5’10_
  * _160-175 pounds_
  * _Caucasian_
  * _30 to 55 in age_



 

_ Other observations _

 

  * _Experienced sailor?_
  * _Owns a car?_
  * _Works non-traditional hours, teleworks regularly, or is unemployed_
  * _Moves the victims from where they are captured; may be holding them alive_
  * _Growing bolder; seems to want to be noticed_



 

_ Next Steps _

 

  * _Continue exploring boathouse angle_



 

Divided between the four of them, they were looking up headshots for all members who met the basic demographics listed on slide XI. Anyone who bore a strong physical resemblance to the man in the boat would be put on a list for further observation and potentially, an interview. 

 

  * _Continue analyzing past case records_



 

Agents Gilbert and Valdés would continue that line of inquiry until Caroline and Jefferson directed them to stop or they concluded the work.

 

Jefferson summarized the unexpected and tension-filled meeting with Finny, as well as the significantly more relaxed one with the BPDA as:

  * _Ongoing Inter-agency cooperation  
  
_
  * _Continue mapping SFK’s movements_



That was what the boat trips were intended to do: help give them a sense of where the killer might be coming from and if he maintained any routines that might help them intercept him.

 

There was space for more bullets after that. This was one of the most important slides of the whole presentation. Jefferson wanted to put something else. It where they showed Deputy Director Strait that they were on top of things; dedicated in the pursuit of finding the murderer. But increasingly, he was worried they were going to hit a point where they’d gathered all the information they could. Based on similar investigations he'd watched unfold in Bureau offices around the country, sometimes the only way to nail a serial killer was to catch him in the act. Sometimes you had to wait for him to make a mistake.

 

Jefferson wasn’t going to rely on a strategy that meant sitting around on his ass waiting for something to happen. He wasn’t going to gamble on someone’s life to solve this case.

**

 

Tuesday afternoon, Caroline and Jefferson parked in a garage on Charles Street—a charming street in the heart of historic Beacon Hill lined with local shops and restaurants-- and took an elegant pedestrian footbridge across the four-lane highway between Boston and the park along the Charles River where Finny’s boathouse was located. The bridge descended gradually, showcasing views of trees, the earliest most delicate buds of spring starting to emerge from their branches, glittering water, and dozens of sailboats, looking like tiny white triangles in the distance.

 

Community Boating was a quaint two-story structure painted Robin’s Egg Blue. Across the front of the building was a row of American flags slightly swaying in the breeze. A full-sized model boat was displayed at the entrance to welcome visitors. An iron fence separated the park, filled with a steady stream of people even in the middle of the workday, from the docks where the boats were housed.

 

The weather had finally made a jump closer to spring. At 60 and sunny, it was the warmest it had been in months. Finny stood waiting out front for them, hands deep in the pockets of his slacks. He was wearing a slick green jacket with his agency logo embroidered on the breast pocket. As he scanned the pathway in front of the boathouse, Finny kept shifting from foot to foot then reaching into his pocket to check the time. They weren’t late; a few minutes early, actually. Apparently Finny had driven himself to restlessness during whatever time he’d been waiting for them.

 

“Good afternoon,” Caroline called out.

 

Finny’s head snapped up. “Hello,” he said. He gave Caroline a smile that was almost believable, except his dimples didn’t show and his eyes didn’t light up with it. Jefferson knew exactly what a real smile from Finny looked like. Those smiles used to stop him in his tracks, rendering everything else going on in the world insignificant.

 

“Hi Finny,” Jefferson said pointedly.

 

That got Finny to look properly at him, at least. “ _Fred_ ,” he corrected, sounding exasperated. His eyes flickered from Jefferson’s face to his shoes and back up in quick succession. He crossed his arms. “You’re going to freeze on the water,” he said.

 

In light of the beautiful day and the fact that they were spending several hours outside, Jefferson had opted to wear his khaki shorts and an FBI polo. He was enjoying the feel of the sun on his face, arms, and legs. Standing directly in a beam, he was so content he thought he could lay on a bench and take a nap. Caroline, who had opted for black leggings, her FBI windbreaker, and a little black backpack, did not receive the same lecture.

 

“I’ll be fine,” Jefferson said. Years ago, they would’ve gone back and forth on it. When they were friends, Finny would’ve persisted in fretting at him until Jefferson went back to get another layer. He’d always been like that -- “ _The sun’s going to go down in the third quarter, and then think of how cold you’ll be!”_ he’d say as they were walking out of the house to go to a tailgate.

 

Most of the time it had been easier to carry around a sweater than to push back, even if Jefferson did tend to run hot. Besides, he’d always liked the small, pleased smile Finny gave him when he got his way. As things currently stood with them, Finny bit back some remark, a muscle in his jaw ticking. He twisted on his heel, leading the way into boathouse.

 

Caroline and Jefferson followed Finny past the front desk, through a double set of doors, and down a ramp onto the docks where the water sparkled like mad in the bright sunlight.

 

“Wait here while I check in,” Finny ordered, abandoning them near a row of idle boats, masts stripped bare, waiting on sails so that they could take to the wind.

 

To their left the Hancock Tower and the Prudential Center loomed high over the city. To their right, trains went rattling by behind the salt and pepper shaker towers of the Longfellow Bridge. Jefferson admired those views so he wouldn’t watch Finny walk off.

 

Caroline stepped closer. “You’ve got to stop pissing him off first thing each time we see him,” she hissed, voice low.

 

“I’m not!” Jefferson protested.

 

“Call him by his name,” she told him. “It’s not that hard.”

 

“That _is_ his name,” Jefferson snapped. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

 

She’d been teasing him as much as genuinely chastising him, and it wasn’t like he didn’t yank her chain just as much, but he was surprised by how much that had hit a nerve. He couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that if he gave in and called Finny ‘Fred’, it would be as if they’d never known each other at all; that doing so would erase all the history they shared. “I called him that for three years. He didn’t have a problem with it then.”

 

She put a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him before letting the weight of the touch rest there. The gesture was supportive while still conveying her overall point of: _get over yourself, Haines._

 

“Maybe he’s changed his mind,” she said gently.

 

The sound of Finny’s voice interrupted him mid-response, mouth half-open. It startled him enough that he jerked slightly, making Caroline’s hand slip. Somehow, despite his near-constant awareness of Finny, he’d failed to notice Finny approaching.

 

“It’ll take me a few minutes to rig the boat,” Finny said, brushing past them to climb into the nearest boat. In the time they’d been apart, he’d acquired a sail that was tucked under his arm and three life preservers. "In the meantime, put these on." He tossed them each one of the vests.

 

Caroline shot Jefferson a pointed look while she zipped hers up. Admittedly, Finny did sound pissed, although Jefferson didn’t understand how he could be the cause. So far today, he’d only said two words to Finny.

 

During their last meeting, Finny had told them he was still learning to sail. Watching him rig the boat, Jefferson thought he wasn’t giving himself enough credit. His hands moved quickly and assuredly, doing things that Jefferson would never have been able to figure out on his own: pulling rope, tying complex knots, and unfurling fabric. There was a quiet confidence to his actions that spoke of hours of practice. Finny looked certain of his movements in a way Jefferson had rarely seen outside of running. He appreciated that Finny had found something else to quiet his racing mind at the same time he admired the deft movements of Finny’s hands.

 

It wasn’t long before Finny turned back to them, carefully stepping so one foot was on the gently rocking boat and the other was on the dock, using his weight to stabilize the vessel. “We’re ready to go,” he said. Performing the activity seemed to have soothed his brief spell of irritation. He sounded perfect congenial until he ruined it a moment later, adding: “Agent Haines, I’ll have you step in first.”

 

“Sure,” Jefferson said, trying to be agreeable. He took two steps closer, stopping just shy of getting into the boat, in arm's length of Finny, while he waited for further instruction.

 

“Step in slowly,” Finny said. “It’ll will rock a little with your weight so pay attention. Take a spot on that bench there once you’re in.” He pointed at a ten-inch strip of painted wood hammered in to form a seat on the far side of the boat, a little closer to the front than the back.

 

Jefferson did as instructed. Finny waited until he was fully settled to turn his attention back to the docks. “Sit across from him,” Finny told Caroline. Unlike with Jefferson, when she stepped close to the boat he offered his hand to help her climb over the hull.

 

Caroline accepted the hand and the help-- two things she would normally outright refuse from a man-- with a smug, sideways look at Jefferson. Jefferson had to remind himself that he wasn’t allowed to push Caroline into the Charles River, no matter how much she goaded him. He also told himself that it was stupid to be jealous of the few seconds when their hands had been interlocked. Why would Finny have offered a hand to him? Jefferson was perfectly capable of getting in a damn boat himself.

 

They were both so tall that they had to stagger their legs so Caroline could sit across from him without their knees jamming painfully together. As soon as they’d completed that puzzle, Jefferson lightly knocked his leg against hers, feeling a wave of excitement, and she flashed him a bright smile. Unless he was forgetting some time he’d gone with his dad as a kid, he was pretty sure this was his first-time sailing. There was no better place to start than on the iconic Charles River with its incredible views of Boston and Cambridge.

 

Finny unhooked the anchor and took the spot at the back of the boat to steer. He looked as comfortable there as he had with the rigging, sitting in a mostly relaxed position, legs splayed, one hand on the tiller and another braced on the bench underneath him. Being outside suited Finny; had always particularly flattered him. The sun gave his hair a luster it sometimes lacked in dim light, pushing it closer to blonde than ash. The fresh air invigorated him, putting color in his cheeks. Whenever he got to be outdoors, he looked young and happy and achingly gorgeous. Maybe that was why’d he’d gone to work for a Parks Department-- to get to spend as much time out of the office as he could get away with.

 

“Push us off?” Finny asked Caroline.

 

She twisted and leaned over to do so, strong arms capably sending them several feet away from the dock. It was slow going, getting out of the little inlet where the boathouse was. “Are we starting at the BU Bridge or the Longfellow?” Finny asked while the boat drifted to the main channel of the river where they’d be less sheltered from the wind and current and thus better able to catch momentum.

 

“BU,” Caroline answered. The question seemed to remind her about her backpack. Carefully shrugging it off one shoulder, she shifted it to the front of her chest. From it, she handed Jefferson a folder of laminated sheets-- crime scene photos, maps, and anything else they might need for the day-- took a copy for herself, and then secured the bag over her back again.

 

“The boom is going to swing whenever I go to turn us,” Finny said, pointing at the heavy metal pole jutting out from the mast. “Whenever I tell you to get down, I need you to duck. You could be knocked out of the boat or knocked unconscious.”

 

“Alright,” Jefferson said. He considered Caroline assessingly. If they both went forward at the same time, they were going to smash their heads together. “You go to your right, I go to mine?”

 

“Got it,” she said.

 

They passed the chain of tiny rocky islands that formed a barrier to shelter the cove of boats, and then the water opened to the full majesty of the Charles River; wider once you were on it than you would expect it to be from land. As soon as they crossed that line, the wind hit them, astoundingly cold after the pleasant warmth on shore. Around them the water was suddenly choppy, tiny waves crested in white spread in all directions. Goosebumps sprang up along his forearms and Jefferson absently rubbed at them. Behind him, he thought he heard Finny chuckle.

 

“Down,” Finny barked abruptly a moment later, an edge to his voice like it had caught him by surprise.

 

They immediately obeyed, leaning in the respective directions Jefferson had assigned them. Hardly a second passed before the boom swung in a violent arc, crossing the full span of the boat from Jefferson’s side to Caroline’s. It locked in place with a loud _crack._ Finny sucked in a sharp breath. “Sorry,” he said. “Good job there.”

 

Caroline sat up, not a hair out of place. She was still rocking that enormous, intricate bun that Jefferson had been admiring in the car a few days before. She looked like she belonged on a boat-- like she was ready to open a bottle of Champagne and turn up the music, not to investigate a series of murders. “That’s why they call us the dream team,” she said proudly.

 

There was a period of silence while they got settled again, shaking off the disconcerting sense of how badly that could’ve gone. Then, Caroline reminded him exactly why he loved her so much. As they glided about 10-yards off the shoreline, she nudged his leg then asked Finny: “How long have you worked for the DCR?”

 

It was one of the questions Jefferson had been dying to ask. He wanted to know everything about Finny: where he had been; what he’d been doing; why he’d chosen to come back to Boston; and so much more.

 

Finny hesitated. “Two months,” he said.

 

That stung. Jefferson hadn’t looked at him to see his response and he was glad he hadn’t when his jaw clenched in response and he was better able to hide it from view.

 

“What were you doing before that?” Caroline asked.

 

“I was in school at Penn,” Finny said. “I got my Masters of Public Administration.”

 

Jefferson hadn’t known that either. He thought again of all those nights spent studying politics and history at the kitchen table. Finny used to think he might want to go to law school. Apparently, he’d found something he enjoyed more. “That’s great, Finny!”

 

“Fred,” Finny corrected. That was getting easier to ignore. It was so frequent it was starting to sound like white noise. Grudgingly, Finny added, “Thanks.”

 

“Honestly just ignore him,” Caroline said, waving a hand at Jefferson. “It’s what I always do.” Finny huffed a surprised laugh. She asked: “What brought you back to Boston?”

 

“The job. And I have family close by.”

 

The ride might’ve been more awkward without Caroline around. But like many meetings where Jefferson wasn’t on his game or couldn’t easily build a connection with a suspect, she easily filled the silence with small talk. Jefferson drank in every tidbit of information he could, hoarding it all for later when he could obsess over it as much as he wanted. Gradually they made their way in the direction of Fenway Park, crossing under the Mass Ave Bridge. The longer they were on the water, the more Finny seemed to lower his guard.

 

“Do you live near here?” she asked.

 

“In South Boston,” Finny said. For the first time, he asked a question in return: “You?”

 

“We both live in the Avalon Tower,” she said. “Close to your office.”

 

“Oh,” Finny said. His face did something funny. “Yeah. That’s right.”

 

Jefferson thought about what Caroline had said and how it could be construed and hurried to add: “She lives five floors below me. Makes for an easy commute.”

 

“Right,” Finny repeated. He glanced out across the water then back to Jefferson, face neutral. It was so much harder to read him now than it used to be. “We’re getting close to the BU Bridge,” he said. “Where exactly do you want me to pull in?”

 

Jefferson raised his map in the air and tilted it, lining everything up to get his bearings: the tiny Boston University boathouse, the boardwalk jutting into the water, the gray steel vehicular bridge, and the old railroad bridge covered by graffiti. “There,” he said, pointing to a cluster of reeds to the left of a row of five boats reserved for university use. “Pull in as close as you can.”

 

Everyone at the Bureau had a victim type that hit them harder than most. Kids were a common one. Pregnant women, too. Caroline’s was young black men, full of potential but failed by the system, lives cut short by the violence in the neighborhoods their parents had no choice but to live in because rents were too high everywhere else in Boston.

 

For Jefferson, it was fathers. Dads always hit too close to home. Like this victim-- Randall Alan had been in the prime of his life, 35-years-old with two young children.

 

“Walk through this with me,” Caroline prompted. She was all business now. “Randall Alan went out for a run last November around 16:00. It was after Daylight Savings so it was getting dark early. He said he was going to run laps around the Boston Common. When did his wife report him missing?”

 

“Fours hours later,” Jefferson answered. “Around 19:00 she started to get worried but thought he might’ve stepped into a coffee shop to warm up. She became certain something was wrong when he missed dinner.”

 

“Where did he live?”

 

“Washington Street.”

 

“And he was found _here,”_ she said.

 

“Yeah, well he obviously didn’t get lost and fall in the water,” Jefferson said, with scorn. That had been the verdict on the final police report: that disorientation from the cold had led him to wander into the river-- 2.5 miles from where he’d began his run-- and die of hypothermia.

 

“When was he found?”

 

“Two days later.”

 

“Time of death?”

 

“Only a range,” Jefferson said. “Anywhere from 20:00 the day he went missing to 05:00 the next morning.”

 

“Another gap,” Caroline said thoughtfully.

 

“A weird one,” Jefferson said. “The Common must have been packed on a Saturday. Our perp didn’t _carry_ him up Beacon Street. So what, he dumped Randall in a car without anyone noticing? Where did he take him then?”

 

“Somewhere quiet,” Finny said. They both swung to face him in what had to be equal astonishment. Outside of the occasional case team check-in, they weren’t used to anyone else participating in their brainstorming sessions. The sound of a wave of water splashing against the side of the boat was unexpectedly loud in their silence. For a few seconds Jefferson had honestly forgotten Finny was there. “Sorry,” Finny said flushing. “I’m sure you didn’t want me--”

 

“No,” Caroline interrupted. “Go on. What do you mean?”

 

“Well,” Finny said, clearly thinking out loud. “If I was going to kill someone-- which I would never do,” he added hurriedly. Jefferson remembered Caroline’s ridiculous suggestion that Finny could be a suspect and internally cringed, hoping Caroline didn’t read into that. “I would want to go somewhere I was sure no one else would be… sorry,” Finny repeated. “This is probably really obvious.”

 

“Not exactly,” Jefferson said. God, Finny was brilliant. It was the kind of thing that was so obvious they hadn’t thought of it at all. “What kind of place?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Finny said. The skin on his nose scrunched as he thought. “Not a house-- somewhere else. A warehouse? An abandoned building? Something like that.”

 

“Honorary Special Agent Ashley,” Jefferson announced, slapping a hand on his thigh. He turned to Caroline, mind whirling. “My gut tells me it would be close. Within a mile or two? Five at the most. Further and there would be too much opportunity for something to go wrong.”

 

“I agree,” Caroline said. “We should access city records. Get a sense for how many vacant buildings there are in that radius.”

 

“The BPDA could help with that. We see Director Green again on Friday.”

 

“You should look at state records, too,” Finny said. “They’re entirely separately managed. I doubt they communicate.”

 

“Would you have access to those?” Caroline asked. She was sitting straight up, brimming with an excited tension. If they weren’t trapped in the boat, Jefferson thought she would have been dashing off to make calls.

 

Finny shook his head. “Not my agency, no. I’m not sure where would be best to look. The Governor’s office could help.”

 

“Sounds like we have a lot of work to do,” Jefferson said and realized he was grinning. He remembered worrying they might have to wait for the Smiley Face Killer to strike again to get more information about him. It was invigorating to have another line of inquiry to pursue. “Good thinking.”

 

**

 

They headed East again, hugging the same shoreline they’d taken upriver. Heading that direction, the breeze hit him right in the face, magnifying the cold. Jefferson attempted to look stoic and not at all like he was freezing his balls off.

 

Soon after they passed under the bright blue beams of the Mass Ave Bridge, they came across a small dock used more by geese than boats, judging by the flock that eyed their approach. Trees had grown over the small path that would’ve led to the bike path from the water. Located on a bend in the river, the spot was perfectly secluded, giving the impression that they could be anywhere in rural Massachusetts, not in the heart of a major urban area. “Here,” Jefferson told Finny.

 

Finny guided them until they gently bumped the wood planks. Then he looped a rope through a metal ring on the dock, securing them so they couldn’t drift away.

 

They didn’t have very good photos to reference for this victim. “He wasn’t on the dock, right?” Jefferson asked Caroline.

 

“Under it,” she said. Her mouth went flat. “A student was reading here and noticed an arm floating out from the side.”

 

In his periphery vision, Jefferson saw Finny shudder. Something about that did, strangely, seem more disturbing than finding a full body. The dock might’ve looked fine when the student first arrived before the current shifted. They could’ve sat for hours directly over the victim without realizing it.

 

Okay, he was even creeping himself out now. “Omar worked at Biogen in Kendall Square,” he said, changing the subject. “He was last seen at 18:30 exiting the lobby onto Binney Street. His coworkers thought he was catching the red line home to Medford, but his card was never swiped. The boys in blue decided he must’ve walked over to that bridge” -- he cocked his head at the Mass Ave Bridge-- “and thrown himself off it.”

 

Once again, he let disgust slip into his voice. He twisted on the boat’s little bench, looking towards downtown Boston, and then waved exaggeratedly. “Instead of, you know, picking the Longfellow Bridge three minutes away from his office.”

 

In the process of expressing his thoughts on the ineptitude of Boston’s finest, Jefferson-- supposed to be in peak physical shape with perfect hand-eye coordination, Jefferson-- embarrassingly lost his balance. Caught half out of the boat, he felt his weight tip as he started to fall backwards towards the water. He tensed, bracing himself for impact with murky, frigid water.

 

A strong hand caught him by the arm, stopping his descent. The warmth of that palm felt like a brand. A calloused finger brushed bare skin at the spot where his polo shirt had ridden up. Jefferson righted himself and looked up, breath catching, to meet Finny’s wide-eyed stare. His heart was racing, but it wasn’t from the adrenaline of the near miss.

 

“Careful,” Finny chided. He released Jefferson’s arm.

 

Jefferson tried not to miss that steady touch. “So… so Omar left work…” He had trouble gathering his thoughts. “Cambridge seems out of character for our perp, doesn’t it? Why was he over there?”

 

“Not necessarily,” Caroline answered. “Maybe Smiley had a meeting over there. It was a nice night-- maybe Omar decided to go on a walk and crossed paths with him on this side of the river.”

 

“Those are two very different scenarios,” Jefferson pointed out.

 

“Yes,” Caroline said patiently. “We’ll have to ask Valdés and Gilbert what they think. They redid some of these witness statements, I’m pretty sure.”

 

“Fine,” Jefferson said. He wrapped his arms around himself, hunching over. Not falling in the cold water had somehow reminded him of exactly how cold he already was, suffering in this unceasing wind. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Finny biting back a grin.

 

**

 

The final victim on their tour, Gregory Jackson, was found floating close to one of the barges used by a construction crew working on the Longfellow Bridge to store equipment overnight. He was one of the only victims Jefferson could conceivably understand being written off as a suicide or an accidental drowning. The night of his death, Gregory had been out for drinks at the Sevens, a popular bar less than five minutes away from where his body had been found. It was believable that Gregory might have gotten drunk, somehow found his way over the footbridge to the water, stumbled in, and drowned.

 

In their reports, the police had also made a fuss about Gregory’s history with anxiety, which Jefferson was careful not to mention in front of Finny while rehashing the details with Caroline. They’d suggested Gregory was in a downturn that night, exacerbated by the alcohol. When seeing his friends hadn’t helped, he became so overwhelmed that he ‘took a dive off the Longfellow’ (their words, not Jefferson’s). All of it might have been _believable_ if there hadn’t been Rohypnol in Gregory’s system when the autopsy was performed and there hadn’t been a small, crude Smiley Face painted on the side of that barge. Incompetent idiots.

 

The construction site had been dismantled months ago, so they wound up sitting in the middle of the water, looking at the ball fields and the Mass Eye and Ear tower, instead of the scene of the crime. It was the thought that counted, Jefferson figured.

 

“Why so close together?” Jefferson mused aloud. “There’s been separation between where the victims were taken and where they were found in all the other cases.”

 

“Smiley was in a hurry,” Caroline answered.

 

“Which means?” Jefferson prompted.

 

“He had to dump the body quickly,” she said.

 

“And…”

 

“His base of operations is close by,” Finny said.

 

“Ding, ding, ding,” Jefferson said, snapping his fingers. “Correct!”

 

Finny smiled at him; a simple smile, full of genuine pleasure at being right. Although it was the tiniest of victories, it gave Jefferson a rush of warmth that persisted long after Finny realized what he was doing and schooled his face.

 

“That would make sense,” Caroline said. “Especially since we know he’s going into the Harbor as well.”

 

“Community Boating,” Jefferson guessed.

 

“No,” Finny said in a firm voice. “They close at sunset. All the local boathouses do.”

 

“Then where would he be putting into the water?” Jefferson demanded.

 

Finny asked: “What kind of boat does he have?”

 

“A little motorboat,” Caroline answered. “Big enough for one person and… his cargo.”

 

“Something that small could be stored anywhere,” Finny told her. “He could be keeping it where he keeps the bodies.”

 

“And where would he enter the Charles?” Caroline asked.

 

“There aren’t that many places with vehicle access.” Finny raised a hand, ticking off fingers. There’s a dock by Kendall Square…”

 

Jefferson listened to him approvingly. He liked that Finny was being so helpful and Caroline was noticing. He liked seeing Finny in his element, so clearly good at his job, knowledgeable of everything under his agency’s purview. Most of all, he appreciated how as the hours had gone by, Finny had stopped being so uncomfortable around him; had stopped giving Jefferson those brittle looks that clearly told him Finny wished he was anywhere else in the entire world. He’d coaxed a laugh out of Finny, albeit at his own expense. Finny had smiled at him, had touched him, and had looked out for him. Every minute they were together, he felt a rising giddiness; an addictive kind of hope.

 

“…one at North Point Park in Cambridge, the ramp for the Duck Boats under the Zakim Bridge, and maybe something on the Boston side, but not that I can think of. I don’t know the Harbor area as well,” Finny concluded.

 

Caroline and Jefferson shared a long look. “I think we’re bringing in the City of Cambridge too,” Caroline said. Their Task Force was getting larger by the minute.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

After he’d docked their sailboat, de-rigged it, and stored their equipment, Finny escorted them back through the boathouse. He stopped in the little pedestrian plaza where they’d first met up with him, the row of American flags swaying picturesquely behind him.

 

Caroline offered her hand to Finny to shake, which he did. “You’ve been immensely helpful, Fred Ashley,” she said.

 

“Thank you,” Finny said, looking pleased by the compliment. “I’ll look into who oversees building occupancy on state lands. It shouldn’t take long. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

 

“That would save us a ton of time,” Caroline said. Finny had charmed her enough that she meant it, too. Usually she was offended when men flirted with her by offering to do her work for her, taking it as a sign they thought she wasn’t capable of doing her job. Not that Finny was doing it to hit on Caroline. Finny was very definitely gay. He was just a nice person.

 

Finny was also clearly about to say his goodbye and leave them. He’d taken a step backwards and raised his arm as if to wave.

 

“Look,” Jefferson said, a little desperately. “There must be another afternoon this week you’re free. Couldn’t we meet for coffee? It could be somewhere near your office.”

 

Finny looked to the sky as if he were calling on the— non-existent, they both agreed—heavens for support. A clump of his hair flopped to his forehead when he looked down again. He didn’t meet Jefferson’s eyes. “I would prefer not to see you outside of a professional capacity,” he said.

 

It was so unexpected, so counter to Jefferson’s positive impression of how the day had gone, that Jefferson flinched, feeling like his chest was being carved out while he listened to the sound of Finny’s footsteps fading away.

 

Caroline waited until Finny was fully out of earshot before whistling loudly.

 

“Don’t even start,” Jefferson said, sitting heavily on a park bench where he could put his face in his hands.

 

“ _There must be an afternoon_ ,” she mimicked in a toneless voice that didn’t sound anything like him. “I can’t believe _you’re_ the person I trust most in the world with my life. You’re useless.”

 

“Help me,” Jefferson begged, glancing up at her. “You’re the one who’s good at this stuff.”

 

“I’ve seen you spit game,” she reminded him in an effort to be comforting. “More than once, even.”

 

“Yeah, when I was drunk.”

 

“Well, you were a hell of lot smoother than this.”

 

“Because I didn’t care if I ever saw them again!” Jefferson said. He put his face back in his hands. When he spoke, his voice came out muffled. “Shit, what if I screwed up and that’s it? What if I really do never see Finny again?”

 

“Stop that,” Caroline told him. She yanked his arms down but kept hold of one of his wrists. “Here’s the plan. Listen to me, Jay.” He obeyed, meeting her caramel eyes. “You’re going to give him some space—a week at least. During that time, you’re going to tell me every scandalous detail of what went down between you two, and then I’m going to help you write an email that’s pitiful enough to be cute but not quite as pathetic as you look right now.”

 

He was too cautiously hopeful to be offended by that. “And then what?”

 

“Then he’ll meet up with you,” she said confidently. “You took your first baby steps today even if you wound up falling on your ass.”

 

Jefferson exhaled slowly, pushing air through his nostrils. Listening to her, he felt marginally less like he wanted to… he’d been thinking ‘throw himself in the Charles’ but that felt wrong considering this case. Plus, thanks to Finny, they had all these new leads to keep him distracted. “Okay,” he agreed.

 

She hummed her displeasure. “Thank you, Caroline,” he said, going over the top with it. “My queen. I don’t know how I would function in this world without you. You are wise beyond your years.”

 

“That’s better,” she said, grinning at him.

 

**

 

They were midway through a workout when they got the summons. That morning, Jefferson had increased his bench press by 10-pounds. Although the addition had been manageable at first, he was having trouble completing his third sequence of repetitions. The front of his grey t-shirt had gone black with sweat. He could see the veins in his triceps bulging with each push upwards.

 

“Six,” Caroline counted. Her hands were under the bar, ready to catch it if he dropped it. “Seven. Eight.”

 

Their phones went off in unison, two very different tunes-- one Apple, one Android-- clashing with every note. Jefferson cursed, losing his focus at the jarring sound. That couldn’t mean anything good; not this early, not if people were looking for both of them. He felt suddenly pinned, his bent elbows the only thing keeping hundreds of pounds from crushing into his chest.

 

“I’ve got it,” Caroline said, meaning the bar. He let her take it from him, arms turned to jelly with the loss of tension.

 

As he struggled to sit up, she crossed the room and unzipped the side pocket of her bag to find her phone.

 

“Pelley,” she answered. After a beat, she added: “Yes, he’s with me.”

 

Her face had already looked grim, but it hardened further at whatever the person on the other end of the line had to say. “Where exactly?” She paused. “Okay,” she said. “We’ll be there in ten.” She hung up.

 

“Another body?” Jefferson asked, gut twisting.

 

“Yes. Close to Community Boating.”

 

“Community Boating _,”_ Jefferson repeated, astounded. There was a prickling cold feeling starting at the back of his neck and gradually seeping down his spine.

 

“Yes,” she said. “Feels a lot like we’re being taunted, doesn’t it?”

 

**

 

Caroline, the heartbreaker that she was, liked to work out in a sports bra and fitted spandex shorts, usually in bright colors that complemented her dark skin. It took her a minute longer than Jefferson to dress for the chilly morning. That gave Jefferson time to duck into the cafe next door and buy two cups of coffee. She smiled tightly at him when he handed her one.

 

They were both visibly on edge. This new attack felt personal. The timing alone could have been written off as a coincidence. Combined with the body being left at the location where they’d started their tour yesterday, though, it was hard to shake the feeling that someone had been watching them and was now rubbing that in their face. Jefferson hated the idea that they might have been observed-- followed, even-- and neither of them had noticed. That made him worry about his own judgment as much as it made him even more wary of the killer’s terrifying effectiveness.

 

There was no point in driving to the crime scene. By the time they found a spot on Charles Street, _if_ they found a spot at all, they could already be there on foot. Instead, they walked briskly, taking the exact same route they had less than 24 hours before, going to meet Finny. He stayed silent along the way, cold out burning in his lungs.

 

Unlike yesterday, when they crossed the highway and began cresting down the footbridge towards the park, there was a large cluster of people along the water’s edge. From a distance, Jefferson recognized the uniforms of all the usual suspects: The State Police, the Boston Police Department, and the FBI agent who’d been on call for the night, Special Agent Levenson. When they drew closer, something else caught his attention: a familiar head of light brown hair. _Finny._

“Why would Finny be here?” Jefferson asked Caroline, anticipation and apprehension warring in equal measure. Although he always wanted to see Finny, he also wanted to keep Finny as far away from the gruesome reality of one of these murders as possible. He kept his voice low.

 

“I don’t know,” she murmured back. Judging by her tone, she found it as strange as he did. “Maybe someone called the DCR?”

 

Finny was speaking with a woman Jefferson vaguely recognized but couldn’t place. She was in her early fifties, beautiful and well-dressed, hair in a sleek black bob. Even from yards away, Jefferson could see the strain in Finny’s body; the ramrod line of his spine and the hooked shape to his shoulders.

 

Jefferson sped up, feeling Caroline close on his heels. Finny was probably the last person Jefferson should check in with upon arriving to the scene, but once he got close there was no other option: that was where his feet carried him. There were lines of fear and misery spreading from the corners of Finny’s eyes, and he was practically hugging himself, his palms on opposite hips. Jefferson was helpless to go anywhere but to him.

 

“Hi,” he said in an undertone, stepping beside Finny. He stopped as close as he could without touching, trying to provide reassurance with the bulk of his body.

 

“Hi,” Finny said in a frayed voice, glancing up at him. His pupils were too big, pitch black orbs crowding out the usually warm shade of his eyes. There was something terrified in his gaze, although it eased slightly at the sight of Jefferson. That was gratifying.

 

Caroline stepped in on his other side. “Special Agent Caroline Pelley,” she said, holding out her hand to the woman Finny had been speaking with.

 

“Phyllis Dreegan,” the woman said. “Boston Neighborhoods Association.”

 

 They started chatting, but it was beyond Jefferson’s capacity to listen. Increasingly, all of his attention was focused on easing Finny’s visible anxiety.

 

“You look like you need this,” he said, offering his coffee. He took a fraction of a step closer. “I haven’t had any yet.”

 

Finny blinked, noticeably startled by the offer, before reaching out a hand to accept it. “Thanks Jefferson,” he said. He took a tentative sip, grimaced, then braced himself and took a much longer pull. The movements of his throat were hypnotic. As he drank, some of the stiffness in his shoulders drained away.

 

Jefferson watched him, feeling warm and pleased to have found such a simple way to help. He’d forgotten, he realized with a little thrill, how much taller he was than Finny. For the majority of their meetings so far, they’d been seated, whether in a boat or at a desk. They definitely hadn’t been standing this close. There was a good 8-inches separating them: Jefferson’s 6’4 to Finny’s 5’8. “If I’d known you’d be here, I’d have added three more creams and a cup of sugar,” he said.

 

“Shut up,” Finny said without heat.

 

“Not that I’m not happy to see you,” Jefferson said, feeling a little bit daring. “But why _are_ you here?”

 

“Special Agent Haines,” Caroline interrupted, in a stern, serious voice. “A word?”

 

Jefferson was conditioned to do anything that voice told him: jump, duck, shoot, run. He straightened immediately. “I’ll be right back,” he told Finny, turning to his partner.

 

She led him over to a granite memorial out of earshot of the scattered first responders and investigators. There she crossed her arms and leveled him with a hard look. “I like working with you,” she told him. “I don’t want another partner. So--”

 

“Do you really?” he interrupted. “You don’t look like it.”

 

Her glare intensified. “ _So,_ I need you to stay far away from Fred Ashley right now. Don’t talk to him. Don’t stare at him. Don’t go anywhere near him. Leave any questions to Agent Gilbert and I.”

 

“ _Questions?”_ Jefferson repeated incredulously. “Why would you question him?”

 

“Because you have a conflict of interest,” she told him.

 

“That’s not what I meant,” Jefferson said. “Pelley, why does Finny need to be questioned?”

 

“Because he’s the one who found the body.”

 

**

 

The body of Les McIntyre had been left on the crumbling remains of what used to be a set of giant stairs leading to the water; an old concrete boat landing. Les had been posed completely out of the water, curled on his side, arms and legs arranged to fit on that single block. Three of those cruelly mocking smiley faces dripped paint from the block above him. If it wasn’t for those faces, it might have looked like Les was sleeping.

 

This was the first time Jefferson was aware of that the killer’s signature was repeated. The thick black lines of those twisted mouths smiled over every part of Les’s body, from his feet to his hips to his head. Of all the shit Jefferson had seen in his career, this was up there with the creepiest. His skin crawled.

 

And it was _Finny_ who’d stumbled upon this grisly scene. Apparently, he’d been on a walk with Phyllis, gathering her feedback on where the Boston Neighborhoods Association would like to see improvements in the park. The scene of the crime-- historically known as Commissioner’s Landing-- had been one of the stops on the tour. Finny had leaned over the railing separating the pathway from the slowly disintegrating concrete blocks, glanced down, and immediately pulled out his phone to call the police.

 

Jefferson stood at the spot where Finny had been less than an hour before. Les had been a big man, almost 300-pounds with a football player’s build-- thick arms and hulking shoulders. In life, he would’ve cut an imposing figure. How had the killer gotten the jump on him? Based on their profile, Smiley was significantly smaller than his victim. Had Les been drugged? Only an autopsy would tell.

 

Jefferson thought about Finny frozen here, horrified by the scene in front of him. After that, he couldn’t help turning his head slightly so he could track Finny in his peripheral vision. Watching Finny speak with Caroline and Agent Gilbert, even from a distance, it was obvious that Finny was still shaken. Jefferson wanted to be with him, steadying him while he gave his statement, not confined to the outskirts. Caroline’s warning had been clear: Jefferson could be fired if he was seen as interfering with an investigation for an old friend. He needed to stay out of any interviews with Finny to make sure no one could accuse him of biasing the findings. She’d been serious in cautioning him, and he mostly respected that. There just wasn’t a single part of him that truly believed Finny was responsible for these heinous crimes.

 

Someone stepped beside him and Jefferson glanced sideways, seeing Special Agent David Valdes, one of the other two members of their case team. David was a family man, a father of three who put in good work during the day and then clocked out every night at 5:30 on the dot unless an emergency arose. Unlike his partner Kenneth Gilbert, David always had a smile for them when he entered a briefing room. He was level-headed and methodical on the job. Jefferson liked him.

 

“I thought we’d get him before he got anyone else,” David said, with a sad kind of sincerity.

 

“Me too,” Jefferson said. He leaned on the balustrade. “We were here yesterday and somehow he found out. This is meant as a challenge.”

 

“He’s a real twisted S.O.B.”

 

“Sure is,” Jefferson said, looking at that row of smiling graffiti faces. It was a sad reality of the world, but a lot of people out there were capable of murder. For someone to make a mockery of death like this, they had to be another level of sadistic entirely.

 

“You think he’ll strike again soon?” David asked.

 

“Likely yes. I think he’ll strike again if he feels we’re getting too close. He might also act out if we’re not making _enough_ progress.”

 

David’s eyes were fixed on the body in front of them. “Part of me thinks he wants us to know who he is. He seems like he wants the attention.”

 

“I think so too,” Jefferson said, mouth flat.

 

They were quiet for a few breaths after that, standing in the cold, seeing yet another man whose life had been cut short by a psychopath. Jefferson knew he should feel sad or angry. Right now, he mostly felt hollow. Useless. He wished they had been fast enough to save Les’s life. The sight of that giant body, awkwardly curled in the fetal position, kept reminding him how badly he’d failed to do his job. Who else was going to get killed if they couldn’t wrap this case up soon?

 

Unsettled, he glanced over to check on Finny once more. Finny was no longer standing with Caroline and Gilbert. He was walking away, heading home, or even back to his office. It would be just like Finny to insist on going back to work after a traumatizing experience.

 

“Excuse me,” he told David, clapping him on the shoulder. Once he was a comfortable distance away from the cluster of his peers, hopefully out of earshot of Caroline, he jogged after Finny. “Finny!” he called. “Hey, wait up.”

 

In a jerky motion, Finny stopped, rocked back on his heels, and turned to face him. He looked pale and tired. He was still holding the coffee cup Jefferson had given him. By now it either had to be empty or ice-cold. “Do I have to tell you it’s Fred again?” he asked. It didn’t sound like his heart was in it.

 

“Are you okay?” Jefferson asked, ignoring that. He started to lift a hand, thinking of resting it on Finny’s arm, and then thought better of it, letting his arm drop to his side. This was the first time in seven years they’d been alone together and he couldn’t figure out how he was supposed to act. This wasn’t in the plan Caroline had set for him.

 

Finny’s eyes were back to normal now—an earthy shade; ruddy brown—although his focus seemed miles away. His eyes weren’t particularly beautiful or noteworthy but when they were filled with affection— the way they always seemed to be in college— they were incredibly comforting, like a warm drink on a snowy day, or sinking into the couch after a hard workout. Looking down into Finny’s face now, Jefferson felt a familiar tug behind his ribs.

 

“I know what you saw this morning had to be…” Jefferson hesitated, ruling out ‘upsetting’ before he settled on: “Shocking. If you need to talk about it…”

 

“I don’t,” Finny said, overlapping with Jefferson’s “I’m here.”

 

There was a pronounced silence afterward. Finny ran a-- trembling, Jefferson noticed-- hand through his hair, which left the short strands sticking up in every direction.

 

“What do you want, Jefferson?” he asked, sounding faintly panicked. He scrubbed that hand a second time, mussing his hair even more wildly. “I spent years thinking I was never going to see you again and now it’s like I see you everywhere. I can’t get away from you!”

 

Jefferson stiffened, fighting the urge to take a step back. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he protested. “You just saw a fucking body.”

 

“So what?” Finny demanded, voice wavering. His hands were clenched in fists at his sides. “You were the biggest asshole in the world but now you expect me to believe you care how I feel?”

 

Before this conversation, Jefferson would’ve said he had a pretty good poker face. You had to be able to control your features to interview suspects, considering the nasty shit they’d sometimes say to you. If they landed a blow and you gave it away, your leverage was shot. Caught off guard now, though, he couldn’t brace himself and he flinched violently.  “Four years of friendship and that’s it?” he asked. His voice came out ragged with hurt. “One bad day and we’re done? You think I stopped giving a shit about you overnight?”

 

“You slammed a door in my face,” Finny said. A mottled pink color was starting to streak his cheeks. His face shifted as he made up his mind to do something. “ _You’re exactly as disgusting as all the guys say you are,”_ he continued, doing an impression of Jefferson that was much crueler than Caroline’s had been. “ _That was our room and you ruined it._ ”

 

“Stop it,” Jefferson said, breath hitching. That wasn’t exactly how he remembered it. Not that he remembered much, considering how drunk he’d been. Mostly he remembered feeling more betrayed than angry, so hurt his eyes stung with it, his throat so clogged he could barely swallow.   

 

“ _I can’t even look at you,_ ” Finny continued, throwing Jefferson’s words back in his face. “ _I never want to see you again._ ”

 

“ _Stop,”_ Jefferson repeated, voice louder this time.

 

Finny listened and went quiet, lifting his arms until they were wrapped around his chest. This was a terrible time to be having this conversation, after everything Finny had been through that morning. He looked as fragile as a pane of glass, standing in front of Jefferson. It was obvious one wrong word could shatter any hope of reconciliation.

 

It was suddenly blindingly, glaringly obvious to Jefferson that of course the longer they had gone without speaking over the years, the worse Finny would’ve built things up in his head. Of course, Finny would’ve gone over and over every terrible thing Jefferson told him. He would’ve internalized the words; taken them at complete face value, ignored years of evidence to focus on the one time Jefferson was an asshole to him— a real asshole, not just kidding around. That was how Finny was built. He couldn’t help himself. Without Jefferson around to correct him it would've been so easy for Finny to convince himself all of it was true.

 

“I called you a hundred times,” Jefferson said. “Texted you even more. Emailed you. Facebooked you. I tried to say sorry every way I could think of.” Now that he was finally being given this chance, it was impossible to stop talking. There was so much he wanted to say.

 

“I’m so sorry,” he continued. “I was… so drunk. That’s not an excuse. But I was. I didn’t mean any of that. I thought about you every day for years. I used to beg Dan and John to tell me how you were doing. I don’t understand how you could think I don’t care about you. I really do. You were my best friend in the entire world.”

 

Before he could say anything worse, Jefferson made himself stop talking. His script had been a lot more elegant than this in his head. In reality, the words had kept coming out in a torrent. Afterward, he felt stripped raw, like a layer of skin had come off with the bandage. His too-sharp breaths weren’t quite doing the job. Each one in burned.  

 

His response seemed to shock Finny quiet. Those long lashes of his swept briefly over eyes gone wide. “I blocked you,” Finny finally said, very hesitantly. He was staring unseeing at the ground, the gears in his head visibly whirling. “Everywhere I could think of. I didn’t see any of that. You should’ve sent me a letter.”

 

Jefferson should’ve written a letter. He should’ve hired a _skywriter_.

 

“This isn’t the Dark Ages,” Jefferson said— a purely knee-jerk reaction; an old inside joke from long ago. 

 

He got the barest hint of a smile for that.

 

Desperately, Jefferson wracked his brain for what he thought Caroline would tell him to say in this situation. Whatever he came up with would undoubtedly fail to meet her high standards but at least he was trying. “Could I give you my number?” he asked. It felt like he was taking a step onto a tightrope, leaving him standing 20-stories over the ground with nowhere to go but forward and nothing to catch him if he fell. If this didn’t work, it might actually kill him. “You could reach out. If you wanted. We could catch up when you’re ready.”

 

Finny’s head snapped up and their gazes locked. Jefferson counted breaths, trying not to fidget under the weight of that intense stare. For a few seconds the only sound was the rush of cars passing by from the highway on the other side of the park.

 

“Okay,” Finny said finally.

 


	8. Chapter 8

There was only one box of tissues in the entire Bureau office. _One._ Jefferson burned twenty minutes of his morning checking the kitchen, conference rooms, and front desk without any luck. He finally ended up begging the box off Morgan, Deputy Director Strait’s personal assistant, who was apparently the only person in the building who could get a supply order pushed through around here. Blatant favoritism. Next time Jefferson went to Costco, he was going to have to buy a 50-pack on his own dollar to get him through his future meetings. Unfortunately, if there was one thing that was essential in his line of work, it wasn’t the gun he had in a holster at his waist or the fancy software they used to track criminals’ online activity; no, it was tissues.

 

Gabby Laposata, Les McIntyre’s long-term girlfriend, was currently on her seventh. She’d started crying at Jefferson’s first question and it had taken a few minutes for her to compose herself after that. Her eyes were bloodshot, the skin puffy around them, and she already had an irritated red strip of skin under her nose from the rough material of the Bureau’s shitty tissues. Whenever she had to speak, she struggled to get the words out, but she looked determined to play her part in helping solve the case by pushing through and sharing what information she could.

 

Although Caroline was even less equipped to handle someone crying than he was, Jefferson wished she was here with him. It was kind of weird, holding an interview like this alone, and she hadn’t given him advance notice so he could learn her parts. They didn’t just alternate who asked a question – instead, they sometimes had one of them speak five to ten minutes, building a rapport with the witness. They’d scheduled this meeting together yesterday, immediately sitting down together to write their script. He’d only studied his own questions in preparation.

 

Then this morning, shortly before Caroline was supposed to ride into work with him, she’d bailed on him with no explanation. She’d hadn’t answered any of his texts since. If Caroline wasn’t a robot disguised as an impossibly attractive human, he’d worry she was getting sick. This wasn’t like her. By 17:00 if she wasn’t back at her desk, he decided he’d grab a bunch of shit from CVS and take it to her apartment after work. If she’d gone down with something, he would be quick to follow, and they couldn’t afford any more setbacks in this investigation. He was going to make sure she felt better soon.

 

“When was the last time you spoke to Les?” Jefferson asked, hoping it sounded gentle and not as impatient as he occasionally came across while on the job.

 

He admired her bravery in speaking with him, no matter how long it was taking. God knew he wouldn’t have been able to talk to anyone in the days after his dad passed away. Even a few years out, he still had a hard time talking about it without getting choked up. His dad had been the one who took him to Steelers games when he was a kid; who taught him to shoot trap; who in a lot of ways was Jefferson’s closest friend, growing up an only child.

 

After a shaky breath, Gabby sat up straighter, folding one of her hands over the other. “After work yesterday, Les went out to drinks with some of his coworkers. I was already home, but we were texting back and forth. They were having a good time.”

 

“Was he drinking?” Jefferson asked.

 

“He’d had a few beers, I think.”

 

Jefferson was careful to keep his tone neutral. “Was that more or less than usual?”

 

“About the same,” she said. She laughed wetly. “It was always hard to get him drunk.”

 

Considering Les’s size, Jefferson could believe that. “Where did they go for the happy hour?”

 

“The Bushwood Cocktail Club. They all work at State Street, so it’s close to their office. Les likes— liked,” she corrected with a hitching breath. “…the arcade games there.” That sent her into another burst of crying, tears pooling at the ends of her eyelashes before forming fat globs that slid down her cheeks.

 

Jefferson gave her some time to let it out before asking: “Do you know what Les planned to do after?”

 

“Yes,” Gabby said. Her mouth started to quiver and she forcibly clamped her lips together until the tremor eased. “He was going to come over to my place for the night. I drove from Everett to pick him up.”

 

“What time was that?”

 

“9:15,” she answered. “I double-checked my phone before this meeting. I called him when I was getting close to let him know he should come outside.”

 

Jefferson had known the gist of this before the interview. They’d checked Les’s phone records when deciding who to prioritize speaking with. There was a reason Gabby Laposata had been placed on the shortlist with the co-workers. Nonetheless, it was one thing to see something written on paper – _Incoming call, 21:15; Estimated time of disappearance, 21:20_ – and something else for the scene to start to play itself in his head in HD, as vivid as if it were streaming on his Macbook at home.

 

“I need to know every detail of that phone call that you can remember,” he told her.

 

Gabby dabbed at her eyes with one of those hard-to-come-by tissues. It came away black with mascara. “Les stepped outside to wait for me. Instead of walking over to Surface Road, he walked deeper into the Financial District. We thought it would be easier for me to pick him up there. Less traffic. He was having a hard time figuring out the name of the side street he was on. There weren’t any street signs close by. Eventually, he had to ask someone for help.”

 

Instantly, every hair on Jefferson’s arms stood straight up; an immediate, visceral reaction. You could teach yourself the tricks of the job— the techniques that would get through the day-to-day—but you couldn’t teach yourself gut instinct. That was something you either had from birth or never learned at all. Right now, his gut was screaming at him that this was something he needed to pay attention to.

 

“Who did he ask?” Jefferson demanded, voice taking on an edge that could be attributed to his own dawning sense of unease.

 

She blinked, looking surprised by the ferocity of his tone. “I don’t know. Someone walking by. Not someone he knew.”

 

“What did they say?”

 

“I couldn’t hear. It was a short conversation. The guy helped him and Les gave me the address.”

 

“How did Les sound?” Jefferson pressed. He dropped a hand to the arm of his chair, gripping it tightly. Les had spoken to his murderer, Jefferson was sure of it. This reeked of the kind of thing that sadistic asshole would do – another way to torment his victims; help them and then kill them. There had to be something he could glean from this.

 

“Fine,” Gabby said. “Normal. A little drunk. I didn’t talk to him long. Once we figured out where he was, I hung up to focus on driving. I was close, we…” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, looking like she was being crushed by the weight of her grief. “We knew I would see him soon.”

 

“How far away exactly were you then?” Jefferson asked. He glanced down at the table under the pretense of checking his notes, trying to keep his face from cracking.

 

It was hard conducting one of these interviews by himself. He was used to getting breaks while Caroline talked—opportunities to catch his breath and clear his mind, which was particularly important in tough conversations like this when he started to sympathize too much with his victims.

 

“My GPS said five minutes.”

 

“Where was Les standing?”

 

“He told me he was on the corner of Wendell Street and Broad.”

 

Jefferson clicked his pen on and jotted the address on his legal pad so he could pull the camera footage as soon as this meeting was over. He made sure to resume eye contact before asking his next question: “Walk me through what happened when you arrived. Tell me everything you can remember. No matter how inconsequential a detail might seem, it may be important.”

 

“I pulled up where he said to meet him. There weren’t many people out that time of night. The street was a little dark, but it wasn’t that bad, so I was surprised when I didn’t see him right away. I kept my lights on and tried to call him a few times. When he didn’t answer, I thought it was because he was so close by he didn’t think he had to pick up.” She stopped, swallowing hard. “Then I thought maybe he’d forgotten his phone in the bar and needed to go back.” 

 

“But you never heard from him?”

 

“No. Eventually, I got out of the car. I walked around calling his name. I went into the Bushwood, and they said he’d already gone outside.” Her voice was hitching more and more with every word she forced herself to say. “I was _five_ _minutes_ away,” she repeated. The tears had resumed in earnest. “How could something possibly have happened to him in that time? He should’ve come home with me!”

 

She folded her arms on the table and dropped her head until all Jefferson could see was a wave of shiny black curls falling across the table. Her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling the butt of his gun digging into his lower back.

 

There was no point continuing the interview after that. Jefferson had all the answers he needed, anyway.

 

**

 

Jefferson was in a foul mood after he escorted Gabby to the elevator bay. She’d cried for almost five minutes before she’d recovered enough to leave the briefing room. The only thing he’d been able to do was sit with her and hope something she told him eventually made a difference in the case. His stomach had churned with the guilty knowledge that on some level he’d helped create her misery. By publicly investigating the murders, he’d goaded the killer into action. They were doing the right thing, obviously, trying to put the killer behind bars, but he would rather be the target of Smiley’s ire than some innocent person.

 

On his way back from the conference room, he’d stopped short at the bay of windows at the end of the row of cubicles where his desk was located – one of the only sources of natural light on the floor for anyone who wasn’t a supervisor with their own exterior wall office. During his drive in this morning, the weather had been overcast and gray but otherwise clear, making for an easy trip. Now everything in eyeshot was white. It was snowing. In fucking April. After a week of nice weather, he should’ve known this was coming. Boston never stayed pleasant for long. Getting home was going to take three times as long. Hours, maybe, depending on how many idiot drivers were out in force tonight.

 

The only thing cheering him up was the memory of the texts he’d gotten that morning:

 

_Hey, this is *Fred*_

_Thanks for the coffee_

The second one, Jefferson figured, had been sent to soften the first. He’d saved the number immediately after responding. It looked familiar – there was a good chance it was the same one Finny’d had all those years ago, although Jefferson couldn’t check. Several years ago, he’d deleted it so he wouldn’t drive himself crazy, constantly reaching out to someone who would never respond.

 

His own number had changed a few years ago, after his dad’s death, when they’d realized it would be less complicated to create a new account where he was the manager and his mom the beneficiary, than to try to transfer the existing account to Jefferson’s control.

 

After seven years of being ignored—well, blocked, Finny had said, which might be better because it meant he’d never actually seen anything Jefferson sent – Jefferson was finding it hard to believe things might have finally changed. Every time he thought about those texts burning a hole in his pocket, he felt so happy it was like being drunk: even though he was half-delirious, he felt like he needed to be especially careful; to go slowly so he wouldn’t say or do anything stupid.

 

He was usually a man of action. Careful wasn’t something he tended to be good at. The few times in the past that he’d liked someone enough to want to see them again, he’d _asked._ This time, though, he was determined to heed Caroline’s advice and give Finny some time and space. Even if Finny had given him his number, Jefferson still remembered him saying ‘ _I can’t get away from you’_. No matter how much Jefferson wanted to skip the awkward get-to-know-you (again) texting, he was cognizant that Finny probably needed that. Finny wasn’t the one who’d spent the last seven years desperately missing the friendship they used to have. Some part of him probably still hated Jefferson.

 

Repairing their relationship wasn’t going to be easy. This was something Jefferson needed to take very seriously. It was essential that he go slow, not barrel into it. Awkward texting, it was. Until he got to see Finny again, he would be happy with any chance to talk to him he could get.

 

**

 

Three feet away from his cubicle, he was so startled to see Caroline at her desk that he stopped in his tracks and backpedaled. She looked perfectly immaculate, not sick in the least, hair blown out straight, falling midway down her back. Her fingers were moving nimbly across her keyboard while she rattled off some email.

 

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he drawled, crossing his arms and leaning against the partition separating their workspaces.

 

Caroline didn’t jump – she was too cool for something so undignified – but her arms did flex as she tightened her grip on the mouse and she breathed out more heavily, which were clear enough signs that she hadn’t heard him approaching. “Did you miss me?” she asked, spinning around in her chair with a bright smile.

 

“Terribly,” he said dryly. “What — could they only fit you in for a hair appointment this morning? It looks good, babe, but I’d rather have had backup for McIntyre’s girlfriend. You know I never know what to do when someone is crying.”

 

“Huh?” Caroline asked. She absently reached up to stroke a strand. “Oh. No, I went last night.”

 

“You decide you wanted to sleep in, then?” Jefferson asked, amused despite himself. If he’d had a partner like Gilbert, who regularly drank himself into a stupor on work nights, he’d feel differently. In this case, he was inclined to give Caroline a pass. This was the first time in their partnership he could remember her pulling a stunt like this.

 

She didn’t laugh. That was when he felt his own grin start to drop. “Everything okay?” he asked.

 

A weird silence followed his question. He’d never seen her face do… whatever exactly it was currently doing – twisting with a strange mix of defiance and guilt. “Jefferson,” she said cautiously. “I was in an interrogation this morning.”

 

All at once, everything clicked. Jefferson dropped his arms and stood up from his slouch, rising to his full height. “No you fucking didn’t,” he snapped. “Not without talking to me first, you didn’t.”

 

“It had to happen eventually,” she told him. She had both hands up, palms facing outward. Caroline didn’t ever surrender. That was her way of telling him to take it easy. “Especially after yesterday. I thought it would be better to get it over with now.”

 

“You _thought_ ,” Jefferson said incredulously. His voice was rising rapidly. At any minute now, he was going to be yelling at his partner in the middle of the office and then someone would inevitably come yell at him. “You should’ve consulted me.”

 

“I consulted Gilbert and Valdès. You already know why you weren’t included.”

 

Jefferson clenched his fists until he could feel his nails biting into his skin. He was so angry he was shaking a little. If there had ever been a time in their partnership that he’d been this angry with her, he sure as hell couldn’t remember now. “I can’t believe you would do this to me,” he said, low and furious.

 

Caroline took a second look at him upon hearing his tone. She seemed to realize for the first time how mad he was. “I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal out of this,” she told him.

 

Two responses came to mind, both of which Jefferson knew better than to say aloud. He clamped down his jaw, feeling a muscle tick in his cheek.

_Because Finny would’ve made himself sick over it,_ he thought first. Sometimes the day-to-day pressures of life were enough to trigger Finny’s anxiety. The stress of believing he was under investigation for murder would undoubtedly be too much for him. Finny wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t be able to focus while he worried about being under suspicion. Jefferson knew well how intimidating Caroline could be when she set her mind to it. He could picture all too vividly how much she might’ve scared Finny in that interrogation without him there to mediate.

 

His concerns for Finny were foremost in his mind. He would’ve been pissed at Caroline for that alone. But there was another quieter voice in his head thinking _Finny just started talking to me again._ That silly hope that had put such a big smile on his face earlier was deflating as rapidly as a punctured balloon. Two texts – that was going to be the start and end of anything they could’ve had together.

 

“You should have consulted me,” Jefferson repeated, chest constricting. “I’m your co-lead in the investigation.”

 

“Look, it’s over now,” Caroline said in a hard voice, refusing to back down. “We cleared him. There won’t be any reason to cut you out in the future.”

 

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Jefferson said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Fuck you, Pelley.”

 

She stood and put her hands on her hips. “Haines. Come on. I’m sorry but you need to chill.”

 

Jefferson really didn’t feel like chilling. It was only 15:00, but... “I’m going to work from home the rest of the day. I’ll find my own way home.”

 

At least this way he could beat the traffic from the snow.


	9. Chapter 9

Jefferson went ten minutes up the street from the Bureau office to hail a car to take him home. The walk was something he did any time he caught a ride from a driver he didn’t know and trust. The address of the office was publicly available — on Google Maps, even — but he tended to be private about what he did for a living. He preferred to only share his career with friends, family, and those who learned about it in a professional context, the way Finny had.

 

The fresh air did nothing to calm his tumultuous mood. Instead with each step he stewed more on his frustration. During the ride he sat in stony silence, staring out the window and brushing off the couple of attempts the driver made to speak to him. He was so pissed at Caroline. Pissed in a way he wouldn’t have believed was possible a few weeks ago, considering how well they’d worked together over the past three years.

 

Once he got home, he made his best effort to work, setting up a makeshift office at the kitchen table with his agency issue laptop and a cordless mouse. His apartment was neat and quiet except for the low hum of the Roomba going over the carpet in the living room behind him. There was no shortage of things he could work on, even easy things, short emails he could check off the list. It was almost impossible to focus on any of it. Instead, he found himself compulsively looking down at his phone after every sentence he typed, checking for… he didn’t know what – a text from Finny saying ‘ _you’re never going to hear from me again’_? Hah. If anything, Finny would vanish like he had the last time, blocking Jefferson’s calls and texts.

 

Couldn’t Caroline have given him a freaking day? Some time to install hurricane windows before she came racing in to blow away the frame he’d been building? What a _bitch_. Now it was too late. There wasn’t going to be anything Jefferson could say that would fix this. Finny’s rope with him was too short. He’d spent too much time already feeling betrayed by Jefferson.

 

Jefferson made a low, guttural sound of frustration and shoved his chair away so he could walk to the fridge to get a beer. He removed the cap using one of the magnets affixed to his fridge and leaned against the cabinets there for a while, feeling sick with a roiling blend of bitterness, anger, disappointment, and worst of all, a miserable, seeping loneliness. With each sip, he became more certain that he was going to be alone forever. He could barely convince himself to give a shit about most guys. The one person he’d truly ever wanted, he was apparently cursed to never have. Oh, and the person he trusted most in the world had just stabbed him in the fucking back. Awesome.

 

His stomach was starting to feel like it had been coated in grease and left to burn slow. He needed to calm down.

 

Jefferson held the bottle to his forehead, letting the shock of cold glass against skin clear his mind. Wouldn’t he rather know for sure that things were over with Finny than spend his afternoon agonizing over the possibility? He would. Better to rip the band-aid off quick and be done.

 

Resigned to his fate, he took five long strides to the table. Still standing, he lifted his phone and pressed the pad of his thumb against the home key to unlock it. Over the past few minutes, he hadn’t miraculously gotten any new texts. He opened a new message and stared at it. Shaking his head, he put his phone down. Then, with a sharp breath in, he picked it up again. Almost as quickly, he set it back down.

 

After four iterations of that, he wanted to punch himself. This second-guessing, constant doubt and uncertainty, didn’t feel like the guy he was. He was a Federal Agent. He shouldn’t be feeling terrified to start a conversation. Anything had to be better than acting like this much of an idiot.

 

Before he could change his mind again, he grabbed his phone and unlocked it, determined not to let go until he’d typed something. His fingers were curled around the screen, poised to dash off the message he’d been agonizing over sending for an hour and a half: ‘ _sorry about this morning. I had no idea that was happening’_.

 

What he actually did surprised even himself: he thumbed over to his brief message chain with Finny and opened Finny’s contact page, pressing dial so quickly that there was no opportunity to change his mind.

 

The phone rang – actually rang; didn’t go straight to voicemail like it would’ve if Finny had already blocked him. That small thing gave Jefferson an inordinate amount of hope. This call was going to go to message and this time Finny might actually see it; _listen_ to it. If Jefferson could find the right thing to say, strike the perfect tone, leave the best message Finny had ever gotten in his life, then maybe he could salvage today.

 

One ring, two rings, three rings…Jefferson was already drafting a message in his head while he waited for the inevitable _beep_ – an expansion of what he would’ve texted.

 

At what had to be the last possible second, the line clicked. “Hello?” Finny answered.

 

That was it: ‘ _hello’._

Jefferson was so caught off guard that he waited a second before responding, halfway expecting the rest of the voice recording to continue playing. “Hey,” he said, when the awkward pause began to stretch on. He felt uncomfortably like he was back in his Bureau entrance exams, when he’d known his entire future might hinge on his answer to an oral question. “It’s Jefferson.”

 

“I saw,” Finny said. His tone was hard to place. Finny had to be angry or hurt, but it sounded strangely he was amused.

 

The possibility that Finny might _answer_ hadn’t come up in either of the scenarios Jefferson had visualized, text or voicemail. In each case he’d prepared for, he would’ve had the time to compose his thoughts, so he could speak eloquently and sincerely. Without a set plan, he defaulted to something much worse: his bluntly honest interview style.

 

“Look,” he said urgently. “I had to tell you — I had no idea Caroline was bringing you in. I would’ve stopped her if I’d known but she cut me out of it.”

 

Finny laughed. It was a soft rush of air that barely carried through the speaker. “I know,” Finny told him.

 

“I sw—” Jefferson began. “What?” he added, mouth falling open.

 

“Caroline told me,” Finny said matter-of-factly.

 

“What?” Jefferson repeated. His voice cracked.

 

“She told me up front. She said you had a conflict of interest because of school so you didn’t know we were meeting.”

 

Jefferson raised his beer to his face again. It wasn’t as cold anymore, but the gesture still helped. His thoughts were frantically trying to reframe themselves to make sense of this new development. “Oh,” he said.  He was still tense, although he wasn’t sure he needed to be anymore. “That’s good. And she was - the interview was okay?”

 

“It was fine,” Finny said. “Short. Caroline just confirmed my alibis for a few of the recent murders so she could formally clear me. Standard practice since I’d found the body, she said.”

 

Standard practice, Jefferson’s ass.

 

“Right,” he said, feeling a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

 

“Did you still have doubts about my innocence?” Finny asked. He sounded like the idea of it was funny.

 

Caroline Pelley, everyone. She was a goddamn miracle worker.

 

“No, I—” One of these days maybe Jefferson would be able to string a full sentence together without stumbling over the words. He hesitated and barreled on. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t worried about it. Obviously, I – we – know you aren’t the murderer, but Caroline had to follow protocol.”

 

“I’m okay,” Finny said. “Thank you for checking.” He didn’t sound amused anymore. Something told Jefferson that wasn’t a bad thing.

 

He ventured: “I was worried when she told me.”

 

“You were?”

 

“I thought you might not want to see me again after,” Jefferson said.

 

Finny swallowed. They were both so quiet that the sound was audible. “I do,” he said.

 

Jefferson was barely breathing. “This week?” he dared to ask.

 

Based on how the first few attempts had gone, he kind of expected Finny to put him through hoops – suggest some time three weeks from now.

 

“Tomorrow?” Finny asked.

 

“Yes,” Jefferson said immediately. “Wait, for coffee? I need to check my schedule to find a time. I think I have interviews.”

 

Finny was quiet for a moment, clearly considering something. “How about we meet after work?” he asked.

 

If Jefferson had felt like an idiot before, it was nothing compared to now. He ducked his head, feeling his cheeks go hot with the force of his unexpected happiness. “Yes. Absolutely.” 

 

**

 

A few hours later, once he was relatively sure she’d be home from work, Jefferson jogged down the stairs to Caroline’s apartment. Feeling a little sheepish, he raised his left hand and rapped on her door with his knuckles. He couldn’t hear her approach, but eventually he heard the click of the deadbolt sliding 90-degrees.

 

Caroline didn’t immediately let him in. She peered at him through the crack, one smug brow arched. “Oh hey, big tiger,” she said. “Is it safe to let you in now?”

 

“I’m sorry I was an asshole,” Jefferson said dutifully. He didn’t love that nickname, but this time she could get a pass.

 

“Are you sure you’ve been properly domesticated?” she continued.

 

The fact that she wasn’t pissed at him in return – that she’d gone right back to screwing around with him like always – embodied so much of what he liked about her. She didn’t have quite so much patience with the rest of the world, but he was her other half, and so, she was always willing to give him a second chance.

 

“I brought beer,” Jefferson offered. “And—” said with an appropriate amount of scorn. “Gossip about my love life.”

 

His view opened to a nearly identical hallway to his own, only with an opposite-facing floor plan. “Two of my favorite things,” she said, sounding pleased.

 

Her L-shaped sofa was so large that they both, despite their respective heights, could lay back against an armrest and fully stretch their legs.

 

“I’m so glad I got to meet Fred Ashley,” Caroline said, getting comfortable with one elbow propped against the couch cushions. “Because I used to think you had so much chill and now I realize you have none. I’m now indisputably the coolest member of our duo.”

 

Jefferson made a rude gesture at her, too busy swallowing a mouthful of beer to bother replying out loud.

 

“You duped me for three years,” Caroline said, with obvious affection. “I’m a little embarrassed I fell for it.”

 

“You were apparently very smooth today, I’ll give you that,” Jefferson said, chuckling. He let his head fall against the back of the sofa and smiled at the ceiling. This day had taken an amazing turn for the better.

 

“So what’s this gossip?” she asked, sitting up straighter, eyes lighting with interest. “Did I scare him right into your manly arms?”

 

Jefferson drawled: “Sure. If you want to put it that way.”

 

“I really, really do,” Caroline said.

 

“We’re having drinks tomorrow night,” Jefferson admitted. It was going to be all he heard about for the next 24-hours, but he was dying to tell someone, which basically left her or his mom. His mom – who’d taken Finny along to dozens of family dinners while they were at Boston College and who at times had probably loved Finny more than Jefferson – didn’t need to know about any of this any time soon.

 

Caroline wolf-whistled, putting her beer down so she could clap. “Look how far you’ve come.”

 

He tried to hide his grin behind the lip of his bottle.

 

“Sooo,” she said. She winked at him. “Should I assume you won’t make it to the gym on Friday morning?”

 

They’d shoved all of Caroline’s throw pillows to the ground when they’d first sat down. Jefferson picked up one of them and lobbed it at her. She deftly knocked it away.

 

“You know I’m not that kind of girl, Pelley.” He let his tone imply, _‘unlike some people’._

“And he’s _special,_ isn’t he?” she said, all faux-sweetly.

 

Jefferson was mortified to find himself turning red. Soon it would be flush down his neck, down to the top of his chest.

 

“Alright,” he said, standing up to go dig through her cabinets for some chips. “Enough of that. What’d I miss today?”

 

“While you were making a date instead of checking your email? Only us getting the security tape from Wendell Street.”

 

That was about the only work Jefferson had managed to do after leaving the office – putting in the request for that footage. Caroline must’ve busted her ass to make something of it so quickly.

 

Something about her tone spoiled the punch line. Jefferson pivoted on his heel, turning back to face her. “What’d you find?”

 

“We caught another look at Smiley. A better one.”

 

“One we can circulate?”

 

“Definitely,” she told him. “Jay, he’s getting reckless. I think we’re going to nail this guy.”

 

***

 

The following day was one of the craziest Jefferson had experienced to date at the Bureau. He barely had time to eat, let alone to dwell on his plans for the night to meet Finny. First, there was a media advisory to draft in coordination with the Bureau’s Public Relations staff, urging the community to be on alert for a man who looked like the grainy still Caroline had captured from a camera recording Les McIntyre’s movements the night of his death. Then, Deputy Director Strait was booked on NESN, a popular local television station, so Caroline and Jefferson were pulled into a last-minute briefing to make sure he could answer any questions the reporters threw at him. On top of that, Jefferson had several interviews previously scheduled, including Les McIntyre’s parents and coworkers, which separated his day into uneven blocks of time, making it difficult to get any other work done.

 

At 18:30, significantly later than he’d hoped to leave, he had to call it quits and run out the door or risk missing the drinks. Caroline had decided that thanks to his ‘hissy fit’, they would prematurely switch to his week to drive. That was fine by him. This way, he could take the turn out of the garage faster than was recommended and push the speed limit by a few miles.

 

“Get arrested and you can’t go out with him,” Caroline pointed out, while Jefferson was racing along the curving ramp next to TD Garden. She sounded delighted to see him so rushed.

 

“I’m not going to get _arrested,”_ Jefferson said.

 

“Right, because you’re a big, mean Federal Agent.”

 

He didn’t have it in him to play along. He couldn’t stop looking at the clock on the dash. By the time he parked, he was going to have to turn right around. So much for getting the chance to shower and change before they met up. The fabric of his suit pants felt heavy against his thighs. He’d hoped to wear jeans and a fitted shirt tonight – something less stuffy than what he wore to the office. Now he was going to look stiff and formal instead of laid-back and approachable, which might affect how Finny ended up feeling about the night in turn.

 

 “Caroline,” he said, voice starting to fray as all the nerves that had been held at bay by the chaos of the day hit at once.

 

She patted him on the thigh. “You’ve already done the heavy lifting on this,” she reminded him. “Just make sure he’s talking more than you are and try to enjoy it.”

 

“Easy enough,” Jefferson said with a strained laugh. He pushed the gas pedal with a tiny bit more force.

 

“You’ve got this,” she said, fingers briefly tightening on his knee. “I promise.”

 

**

 

His phone rang as he was stepping out of the parking garage elevator into his apartment lobby, en route to the speakeasy-inspired bar and restaurant that catered to the government crowd in Boston where he’d agreed to meet Finny. Jefferson expected it to be something work related. Instead, it was Finny’s name on his screen.

 

“Hey,” Jefferson answered, pausing in his lobby. He felt himself bracing for Finny to speak. It wasn’t like Finny—the Finny he used to know—to cancel. Not this late. But things had changed a lot over the last seven years. Finny had a very demanding job, he reminded himself. If Finny was calling to cancel, it might not even be for personal reasons.

 

“Hey,” Finny said. The sound of a gust blowing over the speakers came through in almost equal volume to his words. The temperature had approached seventy during the day. As the sun set, the temperatures had dropped below 50 and the wind had picked up. The force of it had been strong enough to rattle Jefferson’s car on the highway. “I was just at Carrie Nation and it was closed for a private function. I’m headed back your way. Would Ward 8 work?”

 

A wave of effervescent fondness hit Jefferson. No, Finny hadn’t changed at all. Of course Finny — details are everything, compulsive-planner, Finny—had arrived 15 minutes early and scoped out their destination. He’d probably been looking for what he thought were the perfect seats — somewhere they could catch the attention of the bartender, but it would still be quiet enough to talk.

 

“Sure,” Jefferson said. “That’s closer for me anyway.”

 

“Great, I’m about five minutes away,” Finny said

 

An enormous smile was splitting Jefferson’s face. God, he’d missed Finny. He couldn’t believe this was actually happening – that after all this time he was finally getting to spend time with Finny one-on-one. “I’ll be there a few minutes after you,” he told Finny.

 

“I’ll wait outside for you, then,” Finny said. It sounded like he was smiling too.

 

“See you soon,” Jefferson promised.

 

Eight minutes—the exact amount of time predicted by his GPS—later, he turned right onto Medford Street and looked up to see a series of black columns and the words WARD 8 written in blocky white letters above. He’d arrived, but there was no sign of Finny, who should’ve been waiting outside for him and Jefferson couldn’t see him approaching on either side of the street. He stepped inside, shooting the hostess a quick, distracted smile. It didn’t look like Finny had come in to get out of the wind. He wasn’t sitting at the rectangular bar in the center of the restaurant or any of the booths that lined the walls.

 

Jefferson stepped back outside, the adrenaline of rushing to make it here on time abruptly shifting to a different kind of awareness, a prickling sense of _wrong._ The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up. It felt like everything was thrust into slow motion as Jefferson slipped his phone out of his pocket; like his arms were weighted with sandbags as he raised the screen to his face. Finny hadn’t called a second time to let him know he’d been detoured.

 

An hour ago, he would’ve been thrilled to see Finny’s name listed more than once in his recent call history. For now, he was only grateful that it made it easy to hit dial.

 

One ring, two rings, three rings _…_ the line kept ringing until Finny’s voice clicked on. ‘ _You have reached Fred Ashley—’_

 

Jefferson hung up. He immediately hit dial a second time. Who gave a fuck if he came off looking desperate? He needed Finny to pick up and tell him he was just running late.

 

_Click. ‘You have reached--’_

 

A third call also went straight to message.

 

A steady stream of cars was passing by beside him, heading to and from the highway exit ramps. There wasn’t anyone else on the sidewalk other than him, the biting wind pushing his fellow city residents indoors. Still, maybe Finny had run into someone he knew on the street on the way here. Maybe he’d forgotten something at Carrie Nation. It was now obvious to Jefferson he’d… overreacted a little about Caroline bringing Finny in. That could be what he was doing again now – making a crisis out of nothing. They were probably going to laugh about this later.

 

Jefferson raised his left hair to his hair, tugging at the short strands. His heart had kicked into another gear. Every single one of his instincts was screaming _wrong, Wrong, WRONG_. Finny really should’ve been here by now.

 

He remembered with sudden, terrible clarity how Gabby Laposata had sat in her car for several minutes, thinking of innocent explanations for why Les hadn’t come to meet her yet: ‘ _I thought it was because he was so close by he didn’t think he had to pick up; I thought maybe he’d forgotten his phone in the bar and needed to go back.’_ A sharp pain lanced through his chest.

 

He looked wildly up and down the street, hoping against his better judgment that he might notice some obvious clue. The yellow-lit sidewalks stretching before him were mocking him with their emptiness. His worst nightmare was playing out in front of his eyes. Every time he’d ever sat interviewing a victim’s loved ones and thought _‘I couldn’t cope if this happened to me,_ ’ had been building to this moment.

 

The Smiley Face Killer had taken Finny.


	10. Chapter 10

Panic started to build, choking him, challenging his capacity for rational thought. Instead of letting it overwhelm him, Jefferson drew on years of training and experience to keep a clear head. If he allowed himself to get scared there wasn’t going to be anything he could do to help. Ruthlessly, he made himself stop thinking about Finny and stay focused. Mentally, he raced through everything they’d learned about the killer, looking for something potentially useful.

 

Two things stood out to him above all others:

 

First, the killer kept his victims alive before killing them. That meant Jefferson had a window of time to work. Finny still had some hope to make it through the night.

 

They also believed the killer had a home base within one to three miles of the Charles River. Wherever the bastard had gone, Jefferson could get to him on foot.

 

With a sudden, blissfully calming sense of purpose, Jefferson turned his attention back to his phone. At the top of his contact list, under _00Emergency,_ was the Bureau’s emergency line, meant to be used after hours or when issues arose in the field.

 

A woman immediately answered his call. “This is Agent Raswell. What’s your situation?”

 

“This is Agent Haines,” Jefferson said, pacing on the sidewalk. His voice sounded like it was coming from someone else; distant and unemotional. “I’m in active pursuit of an individual who I believe is the Smiley Face Killer. He’s kidnapped a civilian with intent to murder.”

 

He heard an immediate clatter of keys in response. Deputy Director Strait had made it that clear that catching the Smiley Face Killer was the number one priority for his staff. Anyone still at the office was going to reassigned to help with this and all the agents on call for the night were going to be called back to assist.

 

“What do you need?” Agent Raswell asked.

 

Another of those biting gusts of wind hit and Jefferson barely felt it, completely focused on the problem at hand. “A trace on…” he lowered the phone long enough to read her Finny’s number.

 

For several of the recent murders, the victims’ cell phones had been tracked to where they were first taken. At most locations, the phones had been tossed in trash cans to mask the murderer’s movements. In the case of Les McIntyre; however, the phone had been thrown out of a window on Memorial Drive in Cambridge — another sign that the killer was beginning to get sloppy. If Jefferson could at least figure out where Finny had been grabbed, he might be able to use the neighboring cameras to get the make and model of the car, or even a license plate number, so the police would have something more to go off.

 

“Trace in progress,” she said. He didn’t have to wait long after. “Phone located,” she said. “Signal is stopped at a light at the intersection of Nashua Street and Charles River Dam Road.”

 

As soon as he had the address, Jefferson began to run in that direction. He sprinted the length of North Washington Street and skidded left onto Causeway. While he ran, he did his best to keep his phone to his ear, although he knew it slowed him down not to have the use of one arm.

 

“Phone is moving,” Agent Raswell announced. “It’s likely in a vehicle on Charles River Dam Road, currently passing the Museum of Science. I’m requesting that BPD send officers to that area.”

 

There were many more people on Causeway Street than the street Ward 8 was on, leaving work, heading home, visiting the bars, or funneling into the Garden. After a few seconds of dodging slow-moving clusters of them on the sidewalks, Jefferson leapt over to the bike lane, which was far less crowded. There, he was able to put on a burst of speed. He tried to remember to stay aware of his surroundings, although it was hard when his whole world had narrowed to catching up with that car outside the Museum of Science. The streets were still packed with cars, most of which were driven by people who were tired and distracted after a long day at work. Dusk was falling, so most of the drivers would be disoriented by the dark as well.

 

He wasn’t moving quickly enough. The only advantage he had right now was that traffic would undoubtedly be clogging Charles River Dam Road this time of night. The lane to Storrow Drive alone could back up 10 to 15 minutes at rush hour.

 

“Vehicle has passed the Museum,” Agent Raswell announced, the sound muted before he brought his hand closer to his ear. “Vehicle has come to a stop.”

 

“Where?” Jefferson demanded. He was running so hard that his voice was starting to fray. He had a fucking side-stitch. They never ran this hard at the gym. This was so much faster than his training speed. He wasn’t sure he could replicate this in a normal workout, even if he wanted to, if it wasn’t an actual life or death scenario.

 

“In the middle of the road,” Agent Raswell answered. She sounded as confused as Jefferson felt. Then, she observed: “Car is turning left.”

 

Jefferson frantically scrolled through his mental map of streets in the area. The car had now crossed into Cambridge. “Towards Kendall?” he asked, on a gasp of a breath.

 

“No,” she said. “To a small parking lot near the turn to the Gilmore Bridge.”

 

Jefferson thought harder. He’d made it on foot to the intersection of Causeway and Lomasney, which eventually turned into Charles River Dam Road. After so much running, he was back where he’d started, near the entrance of his apartment. He had to stop running at the red light at the enormous, snarled intersection there, unable to find a safe opening in the unending waves of cars passing through. “Isn’t that the old State Police headquarters?” he asked incredulously.

 

“Yes,” Agent Raswell said in disbelief. “I’m redirecting BPD. Signal still idle. The car may be parked.”

 

A cyclist came to a stop behind Jefferson, also stuck at the light. “Hey asshole, get out of the bike lane,” the guy snapped.

 

Jefferson was so impatient over being forced to stop that he craned his head to take a look at his new friend instead of ignoring him like he should’ve. It was some college kid with no helmet on, riding one of those ubiquitous blue-glossed rideshare bikes with stations all over town. A rude response was on the tip of his tongue but then an idea struck. It was one of the _city_ ’s bikes, not the guy’s personal property.

 

“FBI,” he told the kid in his hardest voice; one even Caroline said could be intimidating. “I’m in active pursuit. Hand over your bike.”

 

The kid went wide-eyed, glanced down at his bike, and immediately began to dismount.

 

“Send back-up there,” Jefferson told Raswell. He hung up, shoving his phone in his back pocket so he could climb on.

 

The seat was sized for someone several inches shorter than him, which meant his knees were bent at too-sharp angles. Almost as soon as he was on the bike, the light changed, and he kicked-off, pushing out onto Lomasney Way, cutting across the lanes, and getting on the sidewalk that would take him directly to that parking lot. The angry honks of car horns followed him after he cut into their paths.

 

The motion of bending forward to clutch the handlebars reminded him of something so unbelievable it was almost funny:

 

He had his gun on him. By sheer chance — what he’d thought was bad luck; not having the time to change before meeting Finny — Jefferson was still dressed for work, which meant he was wearing his side-holster. Only because his day had been so crazy would he be going into a confrontation with a serial murderer armed.

 

On a bike, he could cover five-times as much ground as on foot. The only two lights he hit, he blew through, weaving between snarled cars. Within a minute, he was passing the front edge of the Museum property. When he came upon the Museum’s parking garage, he started watching for a break in the sidewalk to his left.

 

There, after a long stretch of concrete, was the turn-in to the two dilapidated brick buildings that had served as the State Police headquarters before the new building was constructed over the locks. In the gap between the two buildings, mostly out of sight from the street, Jefferson could just make out the bumper of a black sedan, blending into the shadows. Finny had guessed that the murderer would use something like an abandoned building as his base of operations. He’d been spot on.

 

 _Finny._ Please, please let Finny be okay. Jefferson was so close now. He’d gotten here as fast as humanly possible. His dress shirt was drenched in sweat. His heart was pounding through his ears, making his head throb. He couldn’t stand the idea that he might be too late.

 

At the first sight of the parking lot, Jefferson made the sharp turn onto crumbling asphalt. Then he ditched the bike, laying it gently on its side. The crunch of tires on gravel was too loud, and he couldn’t afford to give away his position. He crept towards the second of the two buildings, hugging the shadows of the Museum garage. He was grateful again that he hadn’t had time to change. His suit jacket was much darker than anything he would’ve worn to dinner, camouflaging him.

 

As he drew close, he heard the muted but unmistakable sound of something heavy being dragged along the ground. On high alert, he pulled his gun from its holster, clicked off the safety, and held it at a 70-degree angle to his body, arms straight in front of him. He stepped out of his shoes and sped up, ignoring the sparks of pain as rocks dug into the soles of his feet. In his peripheral vision, about a half-mile up the road, he saw a flash of blue lights. The police weren’t using their sirens, attempting not to give away their position for Finny’s safety, in case the killer noticed them, snapped, and killed him, but they were close, trying to force cars to move so they could break through the traffic.

 

Good. At least if Jefferson got killed, someone would be along soon to hopefully save Finny.

 

After what felt like an eternity, but could probably be counted in seconds, Jefferson rounded to the back of the first building. He ducked behind the black sedan, slunk along the side, and peered over the hood. A rusted metal door on the second building was propped open with a heavy-duty bucket that had to be weighted with something — sand? Halfway between the car and the building, a man was dragging a body by both arms, shuffling backwards towards the open doorway.

 

The sight was like unexpectedly being plunged in a tank of ice. Jefferson made a low, involuntary sound of pain that was fortunately masked by the slide of gravel. He felt a spike of agony so intense he had to close his eyes for a moment, seeing flares of red burst at the edges of his vision. It wasn’t necessarily a body, he tried to convince himself. Finny could be unconscious. Nonetheless, there was a split-second where he couldn’t force his muscles into action because he was so terrified by what he might find if he did.

 

The man gave a particularly hard yank, drawing closer to the building, and Jefferson saw the prone figure’s head smack hard against the ground. In an instant, he was on his feet and had rounded the car.

 

“Freeze,” he said in a vicious voice. “FBI.”

 

The man did freeze, obviously shocked by Jefferson’s arrival. For the span of one heartbeat, coming faster after the recent bike ride, he was still. Then he burst into action, throwing down Finny’s arms and kicking hard at the junction of Finny’s head and shoulder.

 

“Hey!” Jefferson said, bursting into motion.

 

The man fled on foot, scrambling towards the Charles River. He ducked through an overgrown patch of shrubs and half-slid down the short slope that led to the bike path which cut under Edwin H. Land Boulevard to the Cambridgeside Galleria Mall. It was almost black outside now, making it increasingly difficult to see. Jefferson fired one shot and then a second when he missed the first. He thought he saw the second hit, glancing against the man’s arm, but he couldn’t tell for sure.

 

The police would arrive any minute now. They could handle the situation here. Finny was either dead already or not. Either way, they could handle it. Jefferson should give chase.

 

Jefferson took four heavy, unsteady steps and dropped to his knees on the ground beside Finny’s torso. With shaking hands, he reached forward, finding the curve of Finny’s shoulders and tracing the dip along bone and sinew to his neck. On his first try, he caught the collar of Finny’s shirt. With an adjustment, he found the skin at Finny’s neck and pressed inwards.

 

_Thump. Thump._

The sense of relief he felt after finding Finny’s pulse was indescribable. The sensation washed over him, easing tense muscles from head to toe. His eyes stung with unshed tears. For the first time in twenty minutes, he could breathe again. With both hands he reached forward, lifting Finny’s back off the ground so Jefferson could pull him against his chest. Finny’s head dropped to below his collarbone as Jefferson held him close and Jefferson turned his face to Finny’s hair, breathing him in. Finny was alive. Somehow, despite all odds, Jefferson had averted the unthinkable.

 

The crunch of tires entering the lot came unexpectedly loud, a jarring contrast to the stretch of peace. They were bathed in the glow of headlights as one car, then another, pulled in. Jefferson looked up only long enough to confirm that they were, in fact, police and then turned his attention back to Finny. In this new light, he could watch the rise and fall of Finny’s chest.

 

A door slammed. “Police. Identify yourself.”

 

Jefferson had to look up again briefly to acknowledge the request. “Jefferson Haines. FBI. My badge is in my front pocket if you need to see it.”

 

“We’re here on report of a kidnapping,” the guy said.

 

“Perp fled on foot,” Jefferson told him. He craned his neck towards the tunnel under the bridge. “That way. He was Caucasian. 55 or 60. Light hair. Possibly gray.”

 

“How long ago?”

 

“One minute? Less than three.”

 

The man put a hand behind his back and gestured at the other officers who were climbing out of the cars to join him. He barked an order and his three colleagues took off in that direction.

 

The small part of Jefferson that had felt guilty, making the choice he had, making sure Finny was okay instead of going in pursuit, was eased by the sound of retreating footsteps.

 

In the wake of all that noise, Finny stirred in his arms. “Jefferson?” he asked, in a soft, groggy voice, faint terror still clinging to the edges. The sound cut deep into Jefferson’s heart.

 

“Hey Finny,” Jefferson said, trying to keep his voice gentle. He raised a hand to cup the back of Finny’s head. One of his fingers brushed against a damp streak, which hopefully wasn’t a deep scratch. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

 

Finny gasped, a thick, wet sound, and pressed closer until his nose was digging into Jefferson’s sternum. With his other palm, Jefferson smoothed the line of Finny’s spine, offering wordless comfort.

 

“He needs medical attention,” he snapped.

 

He felt exposed in the beams of the headlights. Every ounce of what he was feeling had to be plastered across his face. Never before had a case cut so close to home; had he been so close to losing something so unbelievably important. The urge to cry spiked briefly again, followed by a seeping exhaustion that made him appreciate that he was already sitting on the ground. Finny didn’t speak again, falling back into a kind of doze.

 

Through it all, Jefferson kept holding him, stroking his back in one repetitive circle until the ambulance came bursting into the lot and an EMT hopped out of the side door to take Finny from him.

 

**

 

“You’re shivering, you reckless _asshole,”_ someone told him, interrupting the trance he’d fallen into, staring fixedly at the back of the ambulance.

 

His view was briefly cut off by the drape of fabric over his eyes. Although Jefferson couldn’t see inside the vehicle, he was comforted being nearby; knowing Finny’s situation wasn’t so dire they needed to take him to the hospital.

 

He pulled the material down and found himself holding a heavy winter jacket. He was shivering, he realized; shaking violently in the now frigid air. “Thanks,” he managed.

 

It seemed like too much effort to stand up straighter from the wall, so he put it on backwards, sliding his arms inside until his chest was flush against what would normally be the back of the jacket. The weight of the fabric was comforting even if he didn’t exactly feel cold, detached from most physical sensations.

 

Caroline’s voice was tight. “Where are your shoes?”

 

Confused, Jefferson glanced down at his feet. His once navy socks were now coated in a fine layer of dust. “I took them off,” he said. His voice was as rough as the pebbles grinding against his heels whenever he shifted.

 

“No shit. Where?”

 

He waved vaguely in the direction of the driveway, which was now crammed with vehicles. There was a good chance his shoes had been run over. She huffed and stalked off in that direction. After a minute or two, she was back, both of his loafers dangling from one hand. She dropped them unceremoniously at his feet and he stepped into them on autopilot.

 

“Thanks,” he repeated.

 

“You’re a stupid, reckless idiot,” she said, sounding furious.

 

He glanced sideways at her, briefly taking his eyes off the tail-lights of the ambulance. Her jaw was set in a hard line, eyes glinting bright.

 

“I know,” he said.

 

“You should have called me.”

 

His throat clenched. He remembered again that frantic period when he hadn’t known if Finny was alive or dead. “I didn’t have time.”

 

“You shouldn’t have gone in alone,” she said. The words shook.

 

“Finny could’ve died,” Jefferson said, voice flat.

 

“So could you!”

 

Jefferson didn’t know how to respond. That didn’t matter to him – not when it was Finny on the line. And he would’ve done the same for her too, even if she’d be pissed at him for saying so.

 

They stood in silence for a long time, watching the buzz of activity around them. Agents were cleaning out the vehicle, which was surely a goldmine of forensic evidence, as well as the second of the two buildings, moving around carrying strange objects, everything from a small stool to thick metal chains. There was going to be an endless number of things to sort, catalogue, and analyze tomorrow.

 

“This night didn’t go how you wanted, huh?” she asked after a while, almost soft.

 

He surprised himself by laughing weakly. That giddy happiness he’d felt after ending his call with Finny now felt like it was a lingering memory from a dream. It was too pleasant for the way he felt now, wrung out and grated; devoid of all emotions.

 

Caroline shuffled closer until their upper arms were pressed together. She dropped her head to his shoulder. Jefferson let his own head fall against hers, her hair against his temple. Slowly, he began to feel steadier. He closed his eyes against the sea of blinding staging lights and let Caroline take some of his weight when he sagged sideways. The hum of busy people surrounding them was becoming as soothing as white noise.

 

Eventually, the press of her elbow into his side told him to open his eyes. He blinked several times and the EMT came into view, a big man, taller than both of them, African American, heavy, but muscular. “You know the victim?” he called to Jefferson once he was in range.

 

Jefferson nodded, feeling a renewed surge of fear. “Yeah.”

 

“Walk with me,” the man ordered.

 

Jefferson obeyed, sensing Caroline following close behind. They were led to the back of the ambulance. The doors remained closed, making it even harder for Jefferson to fight his mounting feeling of unease; the sense that something bad was still going to happen.

 

“He’s doing well,” the EMT said, countering Jefferson’s spiraling thoughts. “Some bruising and minor cuts aside. It’s lucky you came when you did.”

 

Maybe if Jefferson looked at him, he would be comforted by something in the man’s expression, but he was helpless to look anywhere but at the door handles. Finny was inside that ambulance.

 

“Yes, he was,” Caroline said with a quiet but fierce kind of pride.

 

“The Rohypnol will take a while to work its way out of his system. What’s best for him until then will be sleep. He can do that at home, if there’s someone around to keep an eye on him, or I could have him admitted to MGH.”

 

Where did Finny live? Did he have roommates? These were the kinds of things Jefferson might have learned about him if they’d actually been able to have drinks.

 

“Is he awake now?” Jefferson asked.

 

“Off and on. Never for long periods of time.”

 

Even if Finny were conscious, he wasn’t in a position to properly consent to any course of action, not drugged. Since they hadn’t gotten to meet up, and in all the ways that mattered Jefferson hadn’t spoken to Finny in seven years, he was useless to make this decision.  Jefferson could see the pros and cons of all three choices:

 

He could pull strings to learn where Finny lived — an enormous violation of privacy — but Finny might not have someone around to look after him there if he reacted negatively to what he’d been given.

 

He could have Finny hospitalized at MGH, where Finny would have the best medical care in the region if something did go wrong. That was probably the most responsible decision Jefferson could make; the one someone more unbiased would choose in his shoes.

 

Jefferson was biased, though. He was less impartial about Finny than anyone else he’d ever known. Whenever he tried to think about this rationally, he remembered Finny’s voice in the moment when he’d first awoken; how terrified he’d sounded. How would Finny feel if he woke up in a strange hospital room?

 

“He’s coming home with me,” Jefferson said in a ferocious tone; one as wild as the tiger Caroline had jokingly called him yesterday in another life.

 

“Good,” the EMT said, not seeming to notice. Maybe he was used to people being too intense around him. Mostly he sounded like someone who knew he had a long shift ahead of him, where Finny might be in the most stable condition of any patient he saw. “Which car is yours? I’ll help you load him in.”

 

“Uh,” Jefferson said. He looked helplessly at the blue bike, still resting sideways on the ground several yards away, and then pleadingly at Caroline.

 

“I ran here,” she told him apologetically.

 

“Shit,” Jefferson said. He patted at his pockets, looking for his phone. “Should we — can we call an Uber?”

 

Caroline stepped forward, putting herself mostly in front of Jefferson. Her voice took on a quality he’d only ever heard when they were out at bars and she was on the prowl. She tossed her long, sleek hair. “His building is only a few minutes away. You can see it from here.” She waived airily towards the enormous tower they lived in; the largest building in this portion of the skyline. “Is there any way you could give us a ride?”

 

**

 

They instructed the driver to pull into the below-ground garage, where they would be less likely to run into people entering and exiting at street level. Besides which, Jefferson would be happy if he didn’t have to set foot on Causeway Street again for weeks. The ambulance stopped at the base of the gently-sloping ramp that led to the elevator bay.

 

While Caroline continued chatting up the EMT — Bill, they’d since learned was his name — comparing notes on the past crime scenes they’d been sent to, Jefferson went to stand next to Finny’s gurney. Finny had slept uninterrupted for most of the ride and coming to a stop now hadn’t roused him.

 

Looking at him, Jefferson could almost pretend that this long, horrible night had never happened. Finny’s lashes fanned against pale skin. His breaths came and went evenly. For the first time, Jefferson noticed what he was wearing: a green and blue checkered button-down shirt, tailored it seemed, meant to emphasize wiry arms and a narrow waist equally, dark slim-fit jeans, and brown leather boots. Those weren’t work clothes — Finny had put in an effort specifically for him. At that thought, Jefferson felt a funny sensation, like a fan whirling behind his ribs.

 

Free from the torment of the evening, Finny looked as handsome as he did fragile. The idea of moving him seemed wrong, no matter how much Jefferson wanted him safe inside his apartment. Carefully, so very carefully, aware of how tender Finny had to be after being dragged across the ground, Jefferson leaned forward, sliding one arm behind the backs of Finny’s knees and the other along Finny’s lower back. Warmth radiated through Finny’s clothes.

 

After a deep breath, Jefferson bent his knees and stood, focused on keeping the motion steady so he wouldn’t jostle the figure in his arms. Finny was so much lighter than he expected, eight inches shorter than Jefferson with whipcord muscles instead of bulk. It was easy to carry him like this.

 

Once he was settled, Finny’s head dropped to Jefferson’s chest, the way it had in the parking lot. Jefferson glanced down at him when he felt the pressure. Finny’s face was slack, free from disturbance. He’d never felt like this before: so protective, like he would do anything, build a wall, dig a channel, burn this garage down, to keep anyone getting to Finny again. He took two wary steps forward, feeling like a newborn colt, worried his legs might give out at any moment. Caroline noticed the movement and turned her head, giving Jefferson a quick nod of acknowledgment. She smiled at Bill, thanking him for the ride.

 

On the elevator ride up, Jefferson didn’t dare speak. Every time he exhaled, Finny’s hair swayed. There was a strange kind of parody to it — holding Finny like a bride, ready to step over the threshold with him.

 

Caroline didn’t press the button for her floor. When the doors opened on Jefferson’s, she followed him to his apartment. “Keys?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

 

Finny still stirred, making a muffled sound that lanced through Jefferson’s chest. Jefferson hesitated before answering, eyes locked on him. Only once he was sure Finny wasn’t going to wake did he whisper: “Front pocket.”

 

After fishing them out, Caroline let him inside, following behind him to place his keys on the counter. He continued into his bedroom, bending over to gently place Finny on his bed. Still all too aware that Finny was drugged – with the fucking date-rape drug, of all things—Jefferson didn’t dawdle in the room, didn’t linger, didn’t let himself think about Finny being in his _bed._ The only thing he did to make Finny more comfortable was ease off his shoes and drop them on the floor by the nightstand.

 

Jefferson took one final look, assuring himself once and for all that Finny was okay; that he’d somehow miraculously survived his brush with death incarnate. Then he walked to the doorframe, switched off the lights, and swung the door, closing it to a crack. He headed back to his living room for a debrief with Caroline, who’d been remarkably restrained so far in not asking him to recount the events of the evening. An undoubtedly long, sleepless night stretched out before him.

 

A single thought kept running through his head: the Smiley Face Killer had gone after Finny to get to him. If Finny had died tonight, it would have been for the single, horrifying purpose of getting Jefferson’s attention.


	11. Chapter 11

Like he’d known it would be, it was a very long night, so long that his eyes turned gritty and dry and he started to feel a pulse at the front of his temple. The meeting with Caroline — because it was a work meeting, as much as his friend wanting to be sure he was alright after a dramatic and dangerous evening — went late. Even after she’d gotten tired and given up on going over details to head downstairs for the comfort of her bed, he struggled to fall into a deep sleep. Every time his eyes closed, he found himself dreaming that he’d been too late — that he’d never been able to successfully track the Smiley Face Killer down; that in the morning he’d wake to a call with news that they’d discovered Finny’s body face-down, draped on some dock off a wharf in the Boston Harbor.

 

At most, he was able to catch a few restless hours, constantly shifting to get comfortable on his couch, which was a simple leather sofa about half the size of Caroline’s. Her sofa was the main reason they usually watched football games at her place. Around _04:30_ , he gave up, realizing that he was awake for the day, and got up to do work. Last night he hadn’t taken the lead on the preliminary cleanout of the former State Police headquarters both because he was exhausted, not mentally able to focus after the thrill of the chase and shootout, and because he wasn’t on shift anymore for the day. Today, full leadership of the investigation would revert back to him and Caroline — how they processed evidence, interpreted findings and continued the search for the killer, who as far as Jefferson could tell, hadn’t been successfully brought into custody overnight.

 

To some extent, he and Caroline had run through next steps verbally, speaking in low voices so as not to wake Finny while she sat next to him, toes tucked underneath his thigh. Jefferson spent some time formulating that into a written action plan, assigning roles for the two of them, as well as Gilbert and Valdes. The next few days were going to be a key window of time. They needed to act fast to leverage the momentum they’d gained after scoring what amounted to a win against their perpetrator: catching him off-guard and interrupting him in the act.

 

After being pushed back a step, the Smiley Face Killer, should, in theory, need to retreat and re-evaluate his approach. They’d discovered his base of operations and taken it over, which would be a hurdle to him acting again any time soon. It had been unbelievably bold of the man to go after Finny, knowing Finny was someone with ties to the Bureau office, who’d been tapped to consult on the case. There wasn’t much else he could do to make a bigger splash, not without significant planning.

 

**

 

However much Jefferson liked to shit on the Boston Police Department, particularly for their handling of this case in its early stages, he did have a buddy of sorts in the Police Commissioner’s office, a fellow BC grad about eight or nine years older than Jefferson and Finny. Once he was sure he wouldn’t get told off for calling at a ‘piss early time of morning,’ Jefferson had given him a ring, hoping to learn how the pursuit had unfolded after he’d taken Finny home.

 

Antonio — Tony, as everyone who knew him called him — had the quintessential Boston accent (‘Bah-ston Har-bah’, it sounded, coming out of his mouth) which never failed to put a grin on Jefferson’s face, no matter how terrible his day had been before their conversations.

 

“The boys were able to find a trail along the Lechmere Canal,” Tony told him. Tony always called officers ‘the boys’, even when women were on duty. One day he was probably going to get sued for that. Or maybe it was equal opportunity? “There was a dotted line, of sorts, in blood.”

 

“There was?” Jefferson asked, with a spike of vicious satisfaction.

 

“A fair amount. You get him?”

 

“Shot to the upper arm,” Jefferson said smugly.

 

“Wicked good, Haines,” Tony said.

 

“Thanks. How far did the trail go?”

 

“We brought back dogs and were able to follow him into East Cambridge before we lost him.”

 

“No guesses where he went after?”

 

Tony sounded regretful. “No.”

 

“Shit,” Jefferson said. He smacked his fist hard enough on the surface of the table that it stung after.

 

There was a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye and Jefferson turned his head to see Finny emerging in the doorway of his bedroom, still wearing that blue and green shirt, now crumpled, and his dirt-stained khakis. There was a visible pillow crease on one cheek, which was more endearing than it ought to be. Finny glanced around the apartment, taking in the big windows, with far-reaching views of Charleston, Bunker Hill, and some of East Boston, the plush sofa and moderately-sized TV, and the gleaming immaculate kitchen. Jefferson didn’t use his kitchen enough to put any wear on it and all appliances had been state-of-the-art when the apartment was first constructed only a few years ago.

 

“Thanks, Tony, gotta go,” Jefferson said, hanging up before Tony could respond.

 

There was enough stiffness in the way Finny was holding himself that Jefferson worried at first about how sore Finny must be, after being crammed in a car and dragged across the asphalt. Then Finny’s gaze fell on Jefferson sitting at his little makeshift workstation and his posture relaxed, minute changes in the line of his shoulders and the arc of his spine. He looked relieved, of all things, to see Jefferson. 

 

“Hey,” Jefferson greeted him. Even sleep-deprived and stressed about a weekend of work ahead of him, it wasn’t hard to smile at Finny.

 

Finny gave him a strained smile in return. He didn’t step out of the bedroom doorway. “Hey,” he said. He started to cross his arms, taking hold of opposite elbows, grimaced, and stopped, letting his arms fall.

 

Jefferson began to rise, knocked his knee on the underside of the table, then made himself sit back down. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

 

“Like I’m covered in dirt,” Finny said, making another face. “Or worse. I must have ruined your comforter, sorry.”

 

Based on the types of evidence the forensics team was pulling out of the back of that vehicle, Finny was right to be concerned.

 

“That’s why I have laundry in unit,” Jefferson told him. He waved a hand towards his bedroom. “Shower is wide open if you want to use it.”

 

“Yeah, thanks,” Finny said. “And could — do you have any clothes I could borrow?”

 

“Sure,” Jefferson said. He did get up then, less abruptly than on his first attempt, easing back his chair. Once he was on his feet, he became conscious of his own outfit. Since he hadn’t wanted to disturb Finny overnight, he hadn’t changed out of his clothes either, although they were sweat-soaked and also covered in dust where he’d been sitting on the ground. To get comfortable for bed, he’d stripped down to his boxers. It was only this morning, when he’d gotten up to work, that he put back on his crumpled white dress shirt and lazily did up a few buttons. Once Finny was taken care of, he should probably put on pants.

 

In his hall closet, Jefferson dug out his lone spare towel, which was fortunately clean. He handed that to Finny then continued into the room, rifling through his dresser until he found a pair of sweatpants that was just shy of too tight on him and an old Steelers t-shirt.

 

“Here,” he said, passing those to Finny, too. “Shower’s in there,” he said, gesturing at the bathroom. “It should be self-explanatory, but if not, come grab me. There’s soap, shampoo, everything you should need. Feel free to throw your dirty stuff in the basket and I’ll put it through the wash for you.” Okay he was officially rambling. He cut himself off.

 

“Thank you, Jefferson,” Finny said with a quiet seriousness.

 

After Finny disappeared into the bathroom, Jefferson went back to the kitchen. When he first woke up, he made a carafe of coffee for himself, attempting to feel more like a functioning human before his day really got going. For Finny’s benefit, he started a new pot. If Finny couldn’t stomach it with the remnants of drugs in his system, then Jefferson would take a thermos into work for Caroline. The only sugar he had in his apartment consisted of a small stash of Dunkin Donuts packets stuffed in the back of a drawer. He fished those out and put them on the counter, hearing the muted sound of the shower starting.

 

While he waited for Finny to finish, he texted Caroline: _Will probably drive Finny home. Go in without me_

_What a gentleman,_ she sent. Shortly after, she added: _Schedule a time for him to come in for an interview about last night. Doesn’t have to be today, but soon_

_K,_ Jefferson sent.

 

 _He okay?_ She asked.

 

 _I think so,_ Jefferson sent.

 

The shower clicked off. Jefferson turned his phone over, face-down. The coffee was almost done so he got out a mug from his cabinet, along with breakfast food in case Finny was hungry: eggs, bread, and yogurt. While he was at it, he threw together his lunch for the day, making two ham and cheese sandwiches and grabbing an apple and protein bar. He’d just put everything he would need for the day in a plastic grocery bag when Finny re-appeared in the doorway, damp-haired and swimming in Jefferson’s clothes. Jefferson’s sweats were so long that Finny’d had to roll both the waist and the bottoms of them. The shirt was a little better, but not by much, so much extra fabric hanging around the arms and chest. It was stupid, the way Jefferson felt looking at him. They’d been much closer to the same size in college.

 

So he wouldn’t stare, he rose and went back to the coffee pot. “All set?” he asked, filling the cup.

 

Finny nodded, which Jefferson only saw because he couldn’t help glancing up again, hopelessly enamored of Finny swallowed by his clothes.

 

“You hungry?” Jefferson asked. He brought over the mug and several of the sugar packets, placing them at a seat at the table in the hopes that Finny might come closer so Jefferson could get a better read on how he was feeling. Nausea flickered over Finny’s face. “Maybe just toast?” Jefferson added.

 

“Maybe toast,” Finny agreed uncertainty.

 

“Can do,” Jefferson said. He busied himself grabbing two pieces of bread.

 

With the surety of a skittish animal, Finny finally left the sanctuary of the doorway and claimed his coffee, fingers curling around the ceramic handle. Absently, he took a sip, eyes following Jefferson around the kitchen as he moved back and forth from the toaster. A second later, he spit the liquid back into his mug, looking mortified but also faintly betrayed that the coffee hadn’t been as sweet as he would’ve liked. Jefferson did him a favor and pretended not to notice. He hid a smile while Finny dumped all of the nearby sugar packets in his drink. There was a quiet lull while Finny slowly downed the caffeine, some of the color returning to his face, and Jefferson got out a plate, knife, and butter.

 

When the toast was ready, Jefferson carried it over and slid it across the wood to Finny, who eyed it with a queasy expression, making no effort to take a bite.

 

“You might feel better with something in your stomach,” Jefferson said, then wanted to kick himself. He sounded like his _mom_.

 

Finny only stared at him, his usually warm brown eyes swirling with conflicting feelings. “You saved my life last night,” he said. There was a tremor to his voice. He glanced around the kitchen wide-eyed and disbelieving, as if assuring himself he really was alive.

 

‘ _I got lucky’_ Jefferson wanted to say, which was true in so many ways. If Finny had been taken any other night when they weren’t planning to meet, Jefferson never would’ve known to search for him. If the Smiley Face Killer had thrown away Finny’s phone, Jefferson would’ve been stuck checking every empty building along the river and might have run out of time. But he wanted Finny to relax, not to scare him further. “I believe so,” he said instead.

 

“How did you find me?”

 

“I requested a trace on your phone,” Jefferson said. “It was a good thing you called and gave me a heads up so I knew right away to start looking for you.”

 

He tried to catch Finny’s eyes — share a smile, get him to stop looking quite so terrified. Finny’s gaze was a million miles away, head tipped down so Jefferson only saw the curl of his eyelashes. Finny’s mouth twisted with something Jefferson had to study for a moment before he could place it-- he was thinking hard. “I don’t remember most of the night,” Finny said slowly.

 

“That’s okay,” Jefferson said when Finny paused. “That’s normal. You were drugged.”

 

Finny’s frown deepened. He thought further, nose crinkling. “Was anyone with you?”

 

Jefferson hedged: “Backup was on the way.”

 

“You came _alone_?” Finny asked. That earnest look of concern was a million times more effective than Caroline’s dressing down had been, even if both of them might’ve been coming from the same place.

 

“The police were right behind me,” Jefferson assured him.

 

The troubled look on Finny’s face didn’t ease. Jefferson feigned a grin. “I couldn’t miss my chance to shoot the bastard, could I?” He locked both of his hands together, holding his index fingers forward in an admittedly cheesy pantomime of firing a gun. _Pow,_ he mouthed, lifting his arms slightly as if experiencing a kick-back.

 

When the corner of Finny’s mouth twitched, he felt absurdly proud of himself. “You shot him?” Finny asked.

 

“Of course,” Jefferson said, too honest. “He was going to kill you.”

 

The way Finny was staring at him, barely blinking, was starting to make Jefferson feel like he was drowning, being pulled under by a current too strong to fight. “Is he dead?” Finny asked, glancing back at the table.

 

“No,” Jefferson said regretfully. “He’s… he got away. We’re looking for him now.”

 

The news obviously alarmed Finny. He swallowed, the newfound color draining from his face. Jefferson felt like even more of a screw-up for not making chase last night.

 

“We’re bound to catch him soon,” he promised. It was killing him that he couldn’t reach across the table and put his hand on Finny’s —  offer some kind of wordless comfort. “We know where he’s working, we’ve got his car, his fingerprints. And he’s hurt. He doesn’t stand a chance.”

 

“Okay,” Finny said, after a long pause. He started fiddling with the toast in front of him, tearing it into tiny pieces. He didn’t sound okay. His breathing had accelerated. Jefferson watched him with a lump in his throat, hating the distance between them more than ever before.

 

His only comfort was watching as Finny popped a small piece of bread in his mouth, chewed slowly, swallowed, and then gradually tore into the rest of the plate, his body perhaps realizing how starved it was after missing dinner in the excitement of the evening before.

 

**

 

Presented with Caroline’s question about scheduling, Finny chose to come into the office with Jefferson for his interview. “Let’s get it over with,” he said, shrugging.

 

He’d been very convincing when he agreed to it; absolutely certain. Jefferson —who still thought he knew Finny fairly well — had believed him. But then immediately once they’d gotten in the car Finny had started fidgeting, messing with the air vents and kicking his legs on the mat at his feet, visibly nervous. It got worse with each mile they traveled.

 

“I can take you home,” Jefferson offered, barely onto 93 North. “You don’t have to do this today. You can come back later.”

 

“No,” Finny said. “I’m fine.”

 

He was looking out the window, drumming a line on the hard-plastic ledge. His tells when he got anxious hadn’t changed at all. Back when they were close, Jefferson would’ve just teased whatever was bothering him out of him. That wasn’t an option right now. “Are you s—?” he began.

 

“What happened before graduation?” Finny demanded, cutting him off, the words coming out in a rush.

 

That was the absolute last thing Jefferson had been expecting him to say. He’d known it would come up eventually, it had to, but…

 

He laughed. It was a raw, uncomfortable sound. “You want to talk about this now?” he asked, uncertain. “After last night? You don’t want a break?”

 

“I do,” Finny said. He sat up straighter. “You’re the exact same you were at BC—the same guy I thought was my best friend—”

 

 _Thought._ That might be what it felt like to get shot in the arm.

 

The more Finny spoke, the more decisive he became: “—you almost killed someone last night for me. You rescued me. Gave up your bed for me. I felt safe this morning when I realized I was in your apartment and I hate it _so_ _much_ because I keep wondering when you’re going to turn back into that asshole.”

 

His voice went high towards the end of that speech; he was a little... hysterical wasn’t quite the right word, understandably so. By the time he finished, Jefferson’s chest was aching. On some level, Jefferson thought he had been right—Finny was still so overwhelmed by the night before that this couldn’t be good for him, rehashing what was clearly such a deep wound. On the other hand, if this was preferable to thinking about being captured by a serial killer, Jefferson would be happy to help distract him, however unpleasant the conversation might be. And if this was something holding Finny back from spending time with him, Jefferson obviously wanted that cleared up as soon as possible.

 

“Okay,” he said. He breathed out, long and slow, studying the road stretching before him, countless other cars making their way to work, or home after an overnight shift. How to explain that one, disastrous night? “Give me a minute. I want to say it right.”

 

Finny made a faint sound of acknowledgment. So many memories were swirling around, demanding Jefferson’s attention. It was hard to know where to begin.

 

“When did you come out?” Jefferson asked, a mile later on the highway. It was a rhetorical question. He knew the answer. It had been right after winter break, like Finny had spent two weeks making up his mind to do it and then taken the first opportunity he could upon returning to school. “Late January?”

 

“Yes,” Finny said tightly. “Which is why I don’t understand you waiting until May to let me know how much you hated the idea.”

 

Jefferson let that comment slide, hands tightening on the steering wheel. He would get there eventually. “I was so... excited when you did. I’d been hoping maybe you were since — I don’t know, the first time you smiled at me, probably, drunk off your ass on some shitty beer at Initiation.”

 

Finny made another sound, not as muted. Jefferson chanced a quick look at him, seeing those wide eyes framed by dark lashes. He had to jerk his attention back to the road when he felt the buzz of the rumble strips under his tires. “You shouldn’t have asked me this while I was driving,” he said with a nervous laugh. “I’m going to go off the road trying to get a look at your face.”

 

There was another prolonged pause. “Go on,” Finny said. “Please.”

 

“I was going to ask you out,” Jefferson said. “I had this whole plan.” A ridiculous plan that had only gotten more extravagant with time — dinner at a swanky restaurant with leftover Christmas money and then he’d bring Finny back to their room, which would’ve been decked to the nines with flowers, candles, the works, after Jefferson skipped class to decorate. He’d constantly revised it. Whenever he needed a distraction, that’s what he’d thought about— how he would property woo Finny. “Except then things were so bad for you in the house...”

 

Today, with changes on campus, some of those guys might be looking at expulsion for what they did: pissing on Finny’s clothes, cutting up his textbooks, leaving angry streaks of paint on their door, putting broken glass in his bed. With the weight of a badge behind him, Jefferson wished he could go back and scare the shit out of some of them; keep them from ever bullying someone like this again – or worse, passing it onto their kids. Gradually, Finny started spending less and less time at the fraternity house and more at the library, where Jefferson could join him, and sleeping at friends’ places, where Jefferson couldn’t. When he did come home, he spent all his time with Jefferson, using his presence like a shield.

 

They’d started pushing the dresser in front of the door when they went to sleep. It’d been a small thing Jefferson could do to help make Finny more comfortable. Nothing else—breaking a nose, meeting with the President of the school; writing to the national President of the fraternity, had been any help. Eventually, they’d paid out of pocket to put a new lock on the door.  _‘My safe space,’_ Finny had called their room when he was in a good mood, which had become increasingly less frequent.

 

“I wasn’t sure enough that you felt the same,” Jefferson explained. At this point, he was driving on complete autopilot, remembering to take his exit only because he’d driven this route every day for years. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable in your own room on top of everything else. So I decided to wait to ask until after graduation when you’d be free to tell me ‘no’ and still have breathing room. And I thought about it for months: what it might be like; what you’d say; being together, if I was lucky.”

 

Finny was so quiet. Jefferson had never talked this much in his life without someone else actively participating in the conversation.

 

“That night we were what? Two weeks away? So close. I had like…” he laughed self-deprecatingly. “A countdown going. And then I walked upstairs, looking for you — because what was the point of being at a party if I wasn’t hanging out with you? — and I walked into you...” he made a gesture that loosely conveyed what he’d seen. Finny knew what had happened.

 

“I just lost it,” Jefferson said. “I was jealous and drunk and miserable and I massively overreacted and took it out on you. That was all.”

 

“Jealous,” Finny repeated faintly.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Jefferson said. “You don’t know how many times I’ve replayed those things I said to you. I hated myself the next day. I would do anything to take it back.”

 

“Jefferson,” Finny said earnestly. “I didn’t even know that guy’s name. That was just a big ‘fuck you’ to the house. I was so sick of everything — I wanted to rub it in their faces. Have some fun while I was at it. It had nothing to do with you.”

 

“Well I thought it meant my chance was over. Which was stupid and selfish, but once I thought that I didn’t give a fuck about much of anything anymore.”

 

“Including me,” Finny said.

 

“For those few, seriously fucked up minutes, no,” Jefferson said. “I was hurt and I lashed out and I never meant a word of it. I tried for years to tell you how much I didn’t mean it.”

 

He’d never had the chance to apologize. While Jefferson was still asleep downstairs on a La-Z-Boy in the basement, Finny had cleaned out every single thing he kept in their small room, leaving his side spotlessly clean. They didn’t have any mutual classes that semester and Jefferson never found him in any of their usual spots on campus. Overnight, Finny vanished into thin air. Originally the plan had been for them to remain in Boston together after graduation. It was only later, after Jefferson completed his FBI training, back from a few weeks in Georgia, that he’d learned Finny had reneged on the Boston job and gone to Philly instead.

 

“I never thought of that,” Finny told him, sounding regretful. “I kept thinking you’d tried to be okay with me being gay until you had to actually see it in person.”

 

“No,” Jefferson said, quiet and fierce. “You were my best friend. I would’ve done anything for you. Like I did last night. There was no ‘trying’ about it. It was unconditional. Even if you’d turned me down, started dating that guy, I would’ve taken a couple days to get the fuck over myself, and then I’d have still been your friend.”

 

They’d finally gotten out of the busier portion of the drive and into Chelsea proper, which felt more suburban — lower buildings, less density. At his earliest opening, Jefferson made an abrupt turn into the abandoned parking lot of a former mechanic’s shop. He put the car in park, parallel to the road, and twisted to meet Finny’s eyes.

 

“You were my best friend,” he repeated, voice gone deep, achingly sincere. “I miss you all the time. Even right now, sitting next to you. I wouldn’t ever do something like that to you again. If you could forgive me, I would really like to be in your life again, however you’ll have me.”

 

The lighter streaks in Finny’s hair glinted gold in the morning light coming through Jefferson’s windows. Finny’s mouth had fallen open, pink lips parted in an expression of surprise. That perpetual flush was high on his cheeks. Jefferson was meant to be an expert in body language, but he still couldn’t quite read the strange tension in Finny’s body; the way the fingers of one hand were gripped around Finny’s knee, the other on the door handle.

 

After a few seconds, Finny nodded slowly. “I’m sorry too,” he said. There was a glint to his eyes. “I should’ve heard you out. Given you some chance to explain. I just...” His voice hitched. “Couldn’t stand the thought of hearing again how much I disgusted you. Not from you. You know I get kind of cr— worked up sometimes… always fear the worst.”

 

There was a lump in Jefferson’s throat for the second time in less than 12 hours. Christ, he was tired. “You can’t help it,” he said. He reached out tentatively and brushed the pads of his index and middle fingers against the bare skin at Finny’s wrist — a quick, comforting motion. Finny gave him a hesitant smile.

 

In the more relaxed silence that followed, Jefferson restarted the car, pulling onto the road to his office. He was physically aching, feeling like he was recovering from some lingering flu, but at the same time, he felt lighter than he had in a long time. Optimistic.

 

They were two minutes from the office when Finny spoke again, quickly, almost unwillingly, as if he were still deciding whether or not to ask. “So you’re bi?”

 

“Gay,” Jefferson said. “I… any women you saw me with in college were for show.” There had been a couple of those—women he slept with to fit in, but wound up throwing up in the bathroom after, the way he felt these days after his very rare one-night stands, like Provincetown, only worse.

 

“Are you dating anyone now?”

 

“No.”

 

“Not Caroline?”

 

Jefferson couldn’t help it — he started laughing. “God no,” he said.

 

“I thought you were at first. You’re very close.”

 

“She’s my ride-or-die,” Jefferson said, in the way they always did — sarcastic but with a tiny bit of pride — losing the battle to keep a straight face. “As we would say it. I’ll admit we have a very strange relationship. You sign up for me and she comes as an added bonus.”

 

“That’s fine,” Finny said. There was the beginning of a smile in his voice.

 

Not long after, Jefferson pulled into the lot of the FBI offices, swiping his badge to get through the gate, then raising his hand in greeting at Darius, the guard. He parked in his assigned spot. Turned the car off. He didn’t make a move to climb out, hand still resting on the power button, so Finny, who seemed to be following his lead, didn’t either. Jefferson’s pulse started to accelerate.

 

“Are you dating anyone?” Jefferson dared ask.

 

“No,” Finny said. When Jefferson glanced quickly at him, brimming with a wild kind of hope, he had his bottom lip between his teeth and was pulling at the plump flesh.

 

It felt like Jefferson had been waiting his whole life to ask the question: “What would you have said — before — if I’d asked you out in college?”

 

It was Finny’s turn to laugh, less amused than Jefferson’s had been and more dumbfounded. “I had the biggest thing for you at school. Like you said — probably from the first moment I saw you. No question — I would’ve said yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got very into listening to Calum Scott’s ’The Reason’ while writing this


	12. Chapter 12

In the wake of their conversation, it felt like there was a new energy between them, one Jefferson was sure wasn’t all in his head.  Before, Jefferson had always been aware of Finny, able to pinpoint exactly where he was in any space, but now he could sense that awareness being returned. Finny kept turning his head ever so slightly to look at him. Waiting at the security desk in the lobby to sign Finny in, they stood close together, elbows brushing whenever either of them shifted their weight.

 

Once the person standing in front of them was granted access to the building, Jefferson moved forward to greet the uniformed guard, sensing Finny a half-step behind. “Hey Beau. I’m checking in Fi-Fred Ashley for an interview.”

 

“Haines,” the guard said, lifting his chin in greeting. “I’ll need to see both of your IDs.”

 

Finny had to dig in the pockets of those ridiculously loose sweatpants to find his wallet, which fortunately hadn’t been lost in the chaos of the night before. The motion made the pants slide two inches down his hips and Jefferson’s mouth go dry.

 

 After entering Finny’s information into the system and scanning his ID, Beau printed a temporary visitor’s badge in the form of a white label with Finny’s photo, his name, and the date (Friday, April 27).“Wear this at all times while you’re here,” Beau instructed Finny, handing it over.

 

Finny consented, then carefully smoothed the sticker flat against the right chest of his borrowed t-shirt.

 

If Jefferson was a nicer person, they would’ve shared the elevator to his floor. Instead, he hit the _Door Close_ button to make sure the person he could see walking briskly across the lobby wouldn’t have the chance to step in with them. There was something he’d made up his mind to say and he wanted a few moments of privacy to speak to Finny.

 

The elevator began to rise. “Hey look,” Jefferson said. Finny glanced up at him. The way Finny looked at him now was so different than it had been three weeks ago in the DCR offices. His expression was completely open, affection and trust radiating outwards. It was a throwback to a very different period in Jefferson’s life. He never wanted Finny to stop looking at him like this again. “I’m going to work on calling you Fred,” Jefferson continued, fighting hard to keep any lingering reluctance from showing. He mostly managed to keep his voice neutral. “I know you hate being called Finny. It’ll take me awhile to get used to it and I’m sorry if I screw it up, but I’m going to stop.”

 

“Oh,” Finny said. He looked down at his feet, where he began rolling one ankle, digging the toe of that shoe into the carpeted floor. “If we’re together for work, like this morning, I’d appreciate that. Otherwise, actually, I, uh… I like it when you call me Finny.”

 

“You do?” Jefferson asked, startled, remembering every single time recently when he’d been told otherwise.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Are you sure? You don’t have to… you won’t hurt my feelings if you tell me otherwise.”

 

Finny flashed Jefferson a quick, lopsided, and wholly disarming smile. “I do. Before I was only… trying to keep some distance between us.”

 

“Making me suffer,” Jefferson guessed, with a wry grin. 

 

”A little, ” Finny admitted. 

 

”But you actually like it?”

 

”Coming from you, yes.” 

 

Jefferson swallowed, feeling his throat bob. ”Just me?”

 

“You’re special, I guess,” Finny told him. His attempt at sarcasm failed completely. They were too busy staring at each other. Jefferson could see every single fleck of color in Finny’s eyes.

 

Jefferson’s heartbeat kicked up several notches. There were definitely cameras in the elevator. There were cameras everywhere in this building. This was Jefferson’s place of work. He reminded himself of all these facts, but the knowledge they were under surveillance didn’t lessen his urge to lean over and press a kiss to Finny’s attractively pink mouth.

 

**

 

“Delivery for you,” Jefferson announced as he ushered Finny into Caroline’s cube.

 

Caroline spun around in her seat. “Perfect timing,” she said. She was too good at her job. Even as she spoke, addressing Finny, Jefferson could see her eyes moving, observing the changes in their body language respective to each other and their proximity. “Fred, I’m going to take your statement from last night in a private conference room. We appreciate your willingness to come in and speak with us after everything you went through last night.”

 

“I’m happy to help,” Finny said.

 

Jefferson had gotten the message loud and clear that he wasn’t welcome in these meetings. After the last 24 hours, he had no grounds to deny his enormous conflict of interest when it came to Finny. “Return him in one piece,” he told Caroline, taking a step back.

 

“Oh, I will,” she said. Her eyes said, _‘You have a story to tell me!’_

Turning to go, Jefferson laid a hand on Finny’s upper arm. His fingers rested on the worn fabric of Finny’s – _his –_ shirt. The base of his palm touched bare skin where the sleeve ended. “Come find me after,” he requested. He gestured at the wall to his left. “I’m right next door.”

 

“I will,” Finny said, holding his gaze.

 

Reluctantly, Jefferson left them to it, taking the four steps back to his own desk. He sat in his chair, logged onto his computer, and opened his mail server. The third email in his inbox was a short message from Morgan: _Deputy Director Strait would like to see you as soon as you’re in._ Jefferson immediately stood back up.

 

**

 

Deputy Director Strait tended to amuse Caroline and Jefferson more than he scared them. For one, they were his darling agents and they knew it, boasting the best track records in the Bureau. For another, he was impossibly nitpicky about the smallest of things – how agents formatted the date in memos, for example – which detracted from his air of authority. He was level-headed, though, open to his subordinates contradicting him if they provided well-reasoned arguments, and fiercely protective of his agents when they came under outside scrutiny. Really, Jefferson couldn’t ask for a better boss.

 

“Special Agent Haines,” Deputy Director Strait said, standing up to shake Jefferson’s hand. He had his own office with all the old-school trappings: a large, mahogany desk; awards hung on the wall in frames to match; a signed picture of the Governor; even an American flag in a stand in the corner by the window.

 

“Sir,” Jefferson said. “You wanted to see me?”

 

“Please, have a seat.” As if in illustration, Deputy Director Strait took his own seat.

 

Jefferson obeyed, sitting in the harshly stitched chair across from the desk, feeling a dozen woven buttons against his back

 

“I wanted to see how you were doing after last night,” Deputy Director Strait told him.

 

“I’m fine,” Jefferson said. “Grateful to have averted another murder. I’ve been hard at work sorting through the evidence from…” He almost said ‘Smiley’ but caught himself off at the last second. Thanks, Caroline. “…the SFK’s base of operations.”

 

Deputy Director Strait folded his arms on the desk and gave Jefferson his full attention. “Your actions last night were a testament to the Bureau. You thought quickly and logically and took decisive action, saving a life in the process.”

 

“Thank you, sir.” Usually, Jefferson might take a little more credit, but for now he really wanted the focus off him. “Agent Raswell should be commended. I couldn’t have done it without her support. Nor without the officers from the BPD who arrived on site shortly after I did.”

 

“They should,” Deputy Director Strait agreed. “Agent Haines, your actions last night are part of the reason I named Agent Pelley and yourself to lead this investigation.”

 

Jefferson tried to look suitably grateful and not as awkward as he felt. Sure, he was used to being praised; a sentence or two of acknowledgment at the start of a staff meeting, not this much focused positive feedback. He didn’t know what to say that wasn’t repeating ‘Thank you, sir,’ like an idiot.

 

It was almost a relief when Deputy Director Strait continued: “You are personally acquainted with the victim, I understand?”

 

Now this was a landmine of a conversation topic. Jefferson didn’t hide his sexuality at work, but he definitely wasn’t broadcasting it. He had no idea if Deputy Director Strait knew he was gay. He had no idea what Deputy Director Strait’s political views were. This was Massachusetts, but the older FBI agents tended to be heavily conservative. The Governor in that photo had backed candidates for office who were openly anti-gay-marriage. For all Jefferson knew, Strait thought he was sleeping with Caroline, the way Finny initially had.

 

Jefferson made the conscious decision to pander to the _good ‘ole boy_ mentality, just in case. “We were fraternity brothers at BC, sir.”

 

“ _Hm_. You were scheduled to meet last night?”

 

“We were going to have a few beers. I called the Emergency line when Ashley didn’t show.”

 

“I see,” Deputy Director Strait said. He scrubbed a hand over his face, looking tired. His phone had probably been ringing late into the night too, possibly more-so than Jefferson’s. “I realize you were put in a difficult position last night. Nonetheless, let me remind you that per your training – all those classes I double-checked to know you passed with high scores – if there is an active threat present, it is _your_ job to neutralize that threat. You don’t concern yourself with civilians until all danger has been negated. That’s how you save the most lives.”

 

Jefferson nodded in acknowledgment, jaw clenched. If he was angry at anyone, it was himself, not Deputy Director Strait. That only made it harder to sit here and listen to this.

 

“I don’t care if it was your wife, your boyfriend, or your children laying there on the ground, the Boston Police Department shouldn’t have had to give pursuit.” So yes, Deputy Director Strait knew about him. At least that clearly wasn’t what he was disappointed about here. “I trust you won’t make that mistake again.”

 

Jefferson’s entire face had to be going red. His ears felt hot. “No sir.”

 

They talked for a few more minutes about next steps in the case, particularly how Jefferson and Caroline were going to continue to oversee the processing of evidence. Deputy Director Strait also requested that Jefferson make himself available for any media inquiries regarding his heroics the evening before. The more they could keep the public eye on this case, the more likely it would become that he could be located via a tip from the community. 

 

“That’s all for now,” Deputy Director Strait said, shortly after. He stood, offering his hand a second time. “Again, really good work last night, Agent Haines.”

 

**

 

 _Duct tape, rags, pliers, a grimy Red Sox baseball cap…_ Jefferson was reading through the most up-to-date inventory from the old State Police barracks, hunched forward with both elbows on his desk, very close to the screen, when someone rapped on the wall of his cube with their knuckles. When he sat up straight and rolled his computer chair backward so he could turn around, he saw Finny standing a step inside from the corridor.

 

“Hey,” Jefferson said. Seeing Finny instantly put him in a better mood, relieving some of his lingering frustration after speaking with Deputy Director Strait. “All done?”

 

Finny took a few steps further into Jefferson’s space. “Yeah. Caroline says I’m good to go for the day.”

 

There weren’t many personal effects around Jefferson’s desk: a Boston College pennant flag, a framed photo of him and his parents at his graduation from the Academy, the gym bag on the floor at his feet, his maroon coffee thermos, and the few holiday cards he’d received from coworkers that he really needed to purge soon, considering Christmas had been four months ago. Finny’s eyes swept over all of it.

 

“Great,” Jefferson said. He joked: “You tell her everything we need to know to nail this guy?”

 

“I wish,” Finny said. He frowned, forehead wrinkling. “The only thing I really remember is realizing you had come to save me.”

 

Finny said it absently, an observation more than anything else, but the words made Jefferson’s stomach flip. “Oh well,” he said, trying for a similarly casual tone. “You got away. That’s what matters.”

 

The words garnered him another pleased smile. Then Finny’s gaze fell on the framed photo and he came within arm’s reach, lifting it to examine. “This is a good photo of you,” he said, turning it to show Jefferson.

 

“Thanks,” Jefferson said. It was, he could admit. The sun was shining on his dark hair and he was smiling more genuinely than he usually did in photos, straight white teeth glinting. He looked particularly tall compared to his mom, whose head only came to his collarbone. But the reason he had it out was it was one of the last photos he had of his family with his dad. That was a story for Finny to hear at another time and place, not in the middle of the office.

 

Finny set it down. “I wanted to say bye,” he said. “And, uh… I’ll see you soon, right?”

 

“Yes,” Jefferson said, too fast. “But – how are you getting home?”

 

“I was going to call a cab.” Finny hid his nervousness about it well.

 

“No, I’ll take you,” Jefferson told him, rising to his feet. He patted his pockets to make sure he had his keys.

 

“You’ve barely been at work today,” Finny protested.

 

“I don’t mind.” Rumors were clearly already swirling about him. Jefferson cared fuck-all if they got worse after this. “I want to take you.”

 

**

 

They had to wait for almost a full minute for an elevator to take them back down to the lobby. As they stood outside his office suite, Jefferson thought to ask: “Where do you live?”

 

“Southie,” Finny said. “Between the Andrew T stop and Broadway.”

 

The elevator _ding_ ed. They stepped inside. 

 

“What’s that commute like?”

 

“Not too bad. When there’s bad weather I can transfer Red Line to Green. Otherwise, I walk.”

 

“That must be five miles,” Jefferson said, grimacing. He wasn’t a big walker in his day-to-day life.

 

Finny shrugged. “Three. It helps me clear my head. A lot of days I combine it with my run.”

 

“Of course, you do,” Jefferson said, with affection. “Do you have any roommates?”

 

“It’s just me,” Finny said. He hesitated. “And my cat.”

 

The elevator stopped on the entry level and Finny followed him out.

 

“You have a cat?” Jefferson asked, strangely delighted to learn that fact. He didn’t know why he was surprised. Finny’d had one growing up, he remembered. Fall break sophomore year, he’d gone home with Finny and it had been there, alternating between ignoring Finny for hours and sprawling possessively across his lap whenever they put a movie in. “What’s its name?”

 

“The General,” Finny said, like he knew what a ridiculous name it was but liked it anyway. “Or Gen.”

 

Jefferson didn’t have to think on it long. He grinned. “Dispatch?”

 

God, they’d listened to that song a million times over. Every pregame. He still knew it by heart. The opening chords started playing at full volume in his head as he thought about it. The chorus was going to be stuck in his head for the rest of the day: _Take a shower and shine your shoes. You got no time to lose. You are young men, you must be living._

 

“Yes!” Finny said. They shared a look that told Jefferson he was remembering similar nights sitting on the edges of their beds, four feet apart, sipping Tito’s from solo cups while music played from the speakers of Finny’s laptop. “She’s a Maine Coon so she’s very large. She likes to lord over me from high up.”

 

Jefferson laughed. “I look forward to meeting her one of these days.”

 

“Soon, I hope,” Finny said. When Jefferson glanced at him, there was a flush of pink on his cheeks.

 

“Me too,” Jefferson said. His skin hummed all the way down his right side, where there was barely an inch between their bodies. When they first stepped into the elevator, he was sure they’d been standing further apart.

 

They emerged into the parking lot where the sun was warm on their faces, the temperature up ten-degrees from an hour-and-a-half ago. The drive back into Boston was a lot lighter, easier than the way Northeast had been. Jefferson asked about Finny’s experience in grad school, his sister, and some of their mutual friends from school he’d lost touch with. Finny asked about his job and what it was like living in Boston as an adult, not a student. They both agreed that Boston College’s campus in Chestnut Hill was an entirely different world from Boston proper.

 

The miles passed quickly. It had always been like that with Finny -- they could talk about anything for hours and Jefferson never got bored. With Caroline, it wasn’t quite the same. He felt completely comfortable with her when they were together, but they had their particular things: work, sports, weights, boxing. When he was with Finny he found himself discussing a wild spectrum of things, everything from childhood memories, to a recent behavioral economics study Finny had read, to planning some hypothetical brewery they were going to open together one day.

 

Before long, Jefferson exited from 93 South and began to approach Finny’s street via Dorchester Avenue. As distinctly separate as their neighborhoods were, their apartments were only a short trip apart by car, he couldn’t help noticing. The route was a straight shot on the highway.

 

“Here we go,” he announced, pulling in front of a three-story row house marked with the number Finny had given him. Finny’s apartment was likely only one floor or half of a floor inside. So few people owned full homes in Boston anymore, not when landlords could subdivide and make a fortune in rent.

 

There was no response from Finny, who didn’t move to climb out of Jefferson’s Nissan. When Jefferson turned to look at him, Finny’s face had gone the color of his painted white house. “Finny?” Jefferson asked, abruptly concerned. After hesitating briefly, he reached over and placed a light hand above Finny’s knee, feeling the dampness of Finny’s skin through the thick material of his sweatpants.

 

The touch got Finny to look at him. There was a sharpness to his breath now, new in the last few minutes. His pupils were dilated. He was panicking.

 

“Hey,” Jefferson said, low and gentle. “What’s up?”

 

“What am I supposed to do?” Finny asked, words rushed. “I can’t—I have to go to work on Monday. I can’t stay in my apartment forever. And I’m going to be—I’m so scared, Jefferson. What if he comes after me again?” The more he talked, the more labored his breathing became. He kept having to pause, needing to inhale so his voice wouldn’t give out.

 

“Hey,” Jefferson repeated, tightening his fingers. He waited until Finny caught his eyes, looking at expansive black pupils and little else. This wasn’t new—he’d seen it play out dozens of times. It was different, though, when the stakes were life and death. He found it easier to a lot reassure Finny when Finny was only anxious about a test score.

 

Jefferson spoke slowly, enunciating every word. He didn’t look away from Finny’s eyes. “Here’s what I need you to do: stay inside this weekend. Get some rest— you need it more than you think after last night. Next week, I want you to call an Uber to and from work. Try to pick drivers of color or women. Only walk outside when you know your car is at the curb. Have coworkers wait for you, if possible. Does that make sense?”

 

He waited for Finny to nod.

 

“I shot him,” Jefferson said, in a fierce voice. “He’s injured. There was a trail of blood all the way to the Cambridgeside Galleria Mall. He’s not coming after you any time soon. I’m going to do everything I can to catch him soon.” Jefferson swore: “I’ll work my ass off this weekend to be sure of it. Until then, if you ever feel unsafe, if a single thing ever seems wrong to you, off in some way, give me a call. I’ll get to you as quickly as I can.”

 

“Okay,” Finny said finally. His voice was strangled but his gaze was locked on Jefferson’s, unwavering. He looked like he believed everything Jefferson was telling him; more than that – like a man leaving a desert and finding a polar spring, desperately drinking the words in.

 

On impulse, Jefferson lifted his hand to Finny’s face, cupping Finny’s cheek. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he said, vehement.

 

Finny nodded jerkily, making Jefferson’s arm bob, but not dislodging his hand. Gradually his breathing slowed.

 

“You believe me, right?” Jefferson asked. The words came out hoarse.

 

“I do,” Finny said, after a long moment.

 

 Something told Jefferson not to move his arm. “Whatever it takes,” he said, very seriously. He'd never meant anything so much. “I’ll do anything to keep you safe.”

 

Without any warning, Finny leaned across the center console, closing the gap between them. He pressed his mouth to Jefferson’s, off-center, clumsy with insistence, almost frantic. It was a kiss Jefferson had envisioned a hundred times over, in varying levels of detail. If there was one thing he’d wanted most in his life, except maybe the chance to talk to his dad one more time, it had been to kiss Finny.

 

The rational part of his brain insistently telling him, _Finny is freaking out,_ was firmly overruled by the part of him that had wanted Finny since he was 18. He raised his other hand to Finny’s face, cupping both his cheeks. He kissed back, adjusting the angle, soothing some of Finny’s freneticism. Once they were settled, it became a very good kiss. Finny’s tongue was silken against his, his lips soft. They both had seven years of pent of feelings to pour into it.

 

When they pulled apart a few seconds later, Jefferson had claimed some of Finny’s shortness of breath and he was uncomfortably aware of how long the drive back to work was going to be. He didn’t want to let Finny go, but he made himself, knowing that the best thing Jefferson could do for him was put his attacker behind bars.

 

“I’ll call you on my drive home,” Jefferson promised. It was a fight to keep his gaze from lingering on Finny’s mouth. “I’m here for you, whenever you need me.”

 

Finny nodded. His lips were swollen. He looked better than he had a few minutes before, which was satisfying. “Bye Jefferson,” he said, finally moving so that he could raise a hand to the door handle.

 

Jefferson waited in his car until Finny had crossed his short lawn and let himself into his building before driving away.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Between missing most of his morning driving in and out of the city and all of the recent developments in the case, by the time Jefferson left for the evening he was chasing his own personal record for the longest day he’d ever clocked at the office. So late on a Friday night, the highway was almost desolate, as quiet as a major city thoroughfare could get. He was so tired his eyes burned. It felt like there was sand under his eyelids whenever he blinked. The vast emptiness of the lanes ahead wasn’t helping him fight the desire to close his eyes and put his head down. Even as he actively focused on keeping the wheel straight, he jerked, catching himself drifting across lanes. The feel of gravel under his tires startled him enough that he sat up straighter, fighting harder against his exhaustion.

 

He wanted to talk to Finny. After hours of going over reports summarizing the attack the previous evening and hearing his fellow agents talk about ‘the victim’, he wanted to hear for himself how Finny was doing. Finny had been anxious earlier. Was he feeling better now?

 

A mile or two passed while Jefferson debated with himself. It was late – later than Jefferson would be awake on a normal night, let alone when he was running on fragments of sleep, feeling shoddily glued together. How likely was it that Finny was still up? If he called, would Jefferson risk waking him? Or was Finny up too, jumping at every sound the way Jefferson would be in his shoes? It couldn’t hurt to try, could it? Didn’t everyone sleep with their phones on _Do Not Disturb_ nowadays?

 

As drained as he was, his willpower was completely shot.  Having someone to talk to might help him stay awake, he justified. Plus, Jefferson had promised to call after work and check-in, so he should keep his word.

 

A very selfish part of him didn’t care if he woke Finny, so long as he got to hear his voice one more time before bed. He wasn’t so tired that he couldn’t recognize how sappy that sounded. They had kissed this morning. That moment in the car felt like it had happened a million years ago now. At the memory, he immediately found himself smiling, briefly able to forget the weight of stress and exhaustion pressing down on him. Three touches on his dashboard screen was all it took to call Finny, who was still high on his phone’s history, even after a busy morning of check-ins. Jefferson liked having him there.

 

Once the system dialed out, his car speaker clicked on, blaring the ringing chimes. The sound made Jefferson tense in his seat, going suddenly, unexpectedly cold. It reminded him of that frantic, hellish period last night where Finny’s phone had gone to voicemail over and over again. After two rings, Jefferson felt goosebumps on his arms and a tight knot in his throat. All at once, he wasn’t worried about falling asleep at the wheel anymore.

 

A split-second before he would have started to panic, whether it was rational to or not, considering the time, the line clicked. “Hi,” Finny said. He sounded as tired as Jefferson felt, voice low and rasping, but also openly fond, with a familiar but long-forgotten note that said he was hearing from one of his favorite people and couldn’t be happier about it. “I was worried you were pulling an all-nighter.”

 

“Not quite,” Jefferson said in his own ragged voice. He risked taking a hand off the steering wheel to scrub across his eyes. “I had to get out. I was falling asleep at my desk.”

 

“No kidding, it’s 11:30.”

 

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

 

“No,” Finny answered. “My schedule is all out of whack. I slept half the day so now I feel like I could run a half-marathon.”

 

“Don’t,” Jefferson said, sharper than he meant to be, hands clenching on the wheel.   

 

“I’m not.” Finny sighed, an absent sound he probably didn’t realize he was making. “I’ll be stir-crazy by the end of tomorrow, but I’m not going anywhere alone until this is over, I promise. You don’t have to tell me not to.”

 

Jefferson focused on the calming sound of his voice, letting himself pretend that Finny was the final destination at the end of this infinite-seeming stretch of highway. “Do you run every day?”

 

“Most. Five or six days a week.”

 

“That’s about what Caroline and I try for.”

 

“It shows,” Finny told him, in a tone that thrust Jefferson right back to that morning’s kiss.

 

Any time someone he was actually interested in flirted with him, it left him flummoxed, tongue too heavy in his mouth. _Finny_ flirting with him was even worse. It wasn’t something he’d had the chance to build up any tolerance to. For all Jefferson knew, it could be a hallucination of his sleep-deprived brain. He wanted it too much to handle smoothly. “Not running,” he clarified. “Weights, mostly. And we like to box.”

 

“Do you go to that place across from my office?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I’ve never been,” Finny said. “I always figured I’d get punched in the face if I tried.”

 

Jefferson found himself laughing, which he wouldn’t have thought he had the energy to do. “That would be hard to manage. In the classes, people are on their own, hitting the bags.”

 

“Huh, I guess that makes sense.”

 

“I’ll take you with me one day. You’ll see. You can borrow Caroline’s gloves.”

 

“Sounds fun,” Finny said. “You’ll have to show me how to punch. I don’t think I’ve ever hit anything in my life.”

 

“Happy to,” Jefferson said. He didn’t say: ‘ _It_ _couldn’t hurt to get you some self-defense training.’_ “That said,” he added. “Most days Caroline and I do get in the ring. _She’s_ clocked me in the face once or twice.” 

 

“No she hasn’t,” Finny said, laughing.

 

“Oh, she has. I walked around with a shiner for a week once. That’s how hard she hit me – it bruised me even through her glove. Had to tell everyone it was from a suspect.”

 

“That’s _hilarious_.”

 

Anything time and distance might have done to diminish the strength of his feelings for Finny was erased right then. Finny had been through a horrific ordeal last night and yet here he was, back to his usual self, laughing as Jefferson regaled him with stories. Jefferson had always liked that he was the only one who could get Finny to relax, enjoy himself. He was weak for that –being needed; his company wanted above everyone else’s.

 

“If you really wanted to get in a run I would go with you,” he found himself offering. “You don’t have to go the whole weekend without.”

 

“Would you?” Finny couldn’t hide his excitement at the thought. He really was chomping at the bit to get outside.

 

“You’re going to leave me in the dust, but yeah. I’ll be working most of the weekend. It’ll be nice to get a break in there.”

 

He heard Finny hesitate. “I don’t mean to keep taking you away from your job.”

 

“I could use the workout too,” Jefferson said. “And I… want to see you. I don’t want to wait until everything is over.”

 

Finny’s voice took on a pleased lilt. “Yeah?”

 

The few times he’d dated – if that was what was happening here; God, Jefferson hoped that was where they were headed – Jefferson had never felt quite like this, so constantly vulnerable with someone but comfortable with it, willing to be honest no matter what and trust that it wouldn’t go awry. His voice dipped. “Especially after this morning.”

 

The hitch in Finny’s breath almost made his spoken response unnecessary. “This morning was nice.”

 

The promise of getting to kiss him again made Jefferson even more determined to see him before the weekend was over. Figuring out where to run took some brainstorming. Finny’s favorite spots around Boston were the Harbor and the Charles River, which were both out for obvious reasons. They weren’t about to run the Boston Common and Finny rejected any route where they’d constantly be stopped at traffic lights. Eventually, Finny suggested the Chestnut Hill Reservoir, a 1.6-mile loop around a lake close to where they’d gone to school.

 

“I guess we’ll do laps,” Finny said, clearly disappointed about the length.

 

“Or just one,” Jefferson said, not entirely joking.

 

They arranged for Jefferson to pick Finny up at 09:00 –

 

“Nine o’clock,” Finny corrected. “That sounds so weird.”

 

“That’s how you tell time.”

 

“If you’re a robot,” Finny said. “Do you not talk to anyone who’s not in the FBI?”

 

Jefferson hadn’t much lately – at least not until the twist of fate that brought Finny back into his life. “I’ll see you at _oh-nine-hundred_ ,” he promised pointedly, just before hanging up.

 

When he got home and checked his phone, he had a text that said: _9:00. Nine! O’clock!_

_9pm?_ Jefferson sent, pretending to be confused so he could emphasize why he preferred military time where there was no room for misunderstandings.

 

 _You’re such a nerd,_ Finny informed him.

 

After a moment of internal debate, Jefferson sent him every color of heart he could find on the keyboard.

 

Finny responded with a single red one.

 

It became instantly, painfully evident to Jefferson how completely over his head he was in this thing with Finny. He stared at that innocuous symbol way too long, his own heart beating too fast, pounding in his ears. He couldn’t bring himself to look away from it. When he unconsciously reached to press his thumb to it, stomach swooping, he accidentally made the message scroll. After spending most of his early twenties miserably, hopelessly, endlessly wanting Finny, he was still finding it hard to believe this was happening – that this was Finny, talking to him; kissing him; sending him hearts.

 

**

 

The world had exploded overnight into full-fledged spring. Birds chirped from blossom-laden branches. Daffodils – the unofficial symbol of the Boston marathon, thus planted all over the city – popped up in most open patches of grass. Everything was bright and colorful, and the air was pleasantly warm.

 

Finny hopped out of Jefferson’s Nissan on a side street they’d found near the reservoir, face filled with a youthful kind of delight as he jogged in place waiting for Jefferson. His enthusiasm was contagious. Jefferson paused with his key in the door long enough to watch him. He liked being the one to make Finny smile like that. Also, he liked the way Finny’s legs looked in his running shorts, which were indecent, too short for Finny to possibly be wearing boxers. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on Finny’s body.

 

Stretching from the (again, very high) hem of his shorts to the ground were lean muscles, dusted with a fine layer of light brown hair. There was a narrow belt at his waist with two miniature water bottles clipped on either side. It kept tugging up the fabric.

 

“Are you wearing anything under those?” Jefferson asked without thinking.

 

Finny gave him a look, glancing up under his eyelashes. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

 

Jefferson swallowed, giving him a slow once-over, impressed by his own daring. “Lead the way,” he said, only the slightest bit hoarse. “I’ll do my best to catch up.”

 

Finny started jogging down a sidewalk in the direction of the water. They emerged from a low-lying mixed-use area to an elevated lake with a spectacular view of Boston to the east and more residential neighborhoods to the west. There they hopped on the dusty running path and Finny really started to move his legs.

 

With the advantage of his height, Jefferson was able to keep up for the first two laps. Anyone in decently good shape could run a 5K if they put their mind to it. Since he’d left his headphones in the car, his soundtrack for the run was Finny’s voice as he kept up a steady, mostly one-sided conversation, never once getting out of breath.

 

The route went from pretty and interesting, to boring in its repetition, to peacefully monotonous. He began to notice the smallest of reference points, like tree roots sticking out of the ground, while being fascinated by every little change, like a turtle sliding off a log into the water. It was in the midst of the third lap, that he started to lag behind. Then he kept himself entertained watching the view in front of him.

 

Halfway through the fourth lap – around the six-mile mark – Jefferson slowed to a walk. “Finny,” he called ahead, breath hitching.

 

Finny turned around, jogging backwards in place. Three yards ahead of him was a bench shaded by a stand of trees. “I’ll wait for you there,” Jefferson told him. “Go as long as you want.”

 

Frowning, Finny jogged forward and stopped beside him. “You okay?”

 

Jefferson found himself grinning, the high of the workout making him buzz from head to toe, even along his leaden legs. This had been fun, albeit torturous. “Just tired. We can’t all have your stamina.”

 

“I can stop,” Finny offered. His eyes said he wanted to go another 50-miles.

 

They began to walk together, falling into step. Their knuckles brushed. “No, keep going,” Jefferson urged. He dropped onto the bench with a satisfied groan and spread his legs, sprawling against the boards. “Enjoy the beautiful day. I’ll be right here.” Although the reservoir was packed, he made sure to add: “Stay on the trail and around people.”

 

“I will,” Finny said. Instead of turning to go, he moved forward, stepping inside the vee of Jefferson’s thighs and knotting a hand in Jefferson’s t-shirt. Using that leverage, he leaned forward to press a quick kiss to Jefferson’s mouth. Jefferson’s pulse had already been accelerated from the run, but it gave a valiant effort to speed up further. He caught a whiff of sweat on sun-kissed skin which was a more attractive scent than it ought to be. “Thanks for today,” Finny told him.

 

The next 30 minutes passed in a comfortable lull. His phone was in his pocket, so Jefferson could’ve taken the time to catch up on email or call his mom – something he hadn’t done in far too long since he hadn’t wanted to worry her by talking about this case or get her hopes up by talking about Finny. Instead, he savored the feel of a beam of sunlight on his face as he tracked Finny’s loops.

 

Jefferson liked a lot of things about Finny in particular, but more broadly, he had always liked competence and Finny was very good at running. This was Finny in his element, eyes locked ahead, arms and legs pumping; a perfectly tuned machine. Apparently he’d been holding back while he ran with Jefferson. On his own, he was even faster. About every ten minutes he passed by, shooting Jefferson a bright grin or a wave. In between, there was a constant stream of people: other runners, families with strollers, friends out for a walk, and dogs; so many dogs.

 

In the middle of his third additional lap – at over 10-miles – Finny gradually started to slow. By the time he made it back to Jefferson’s bench, he was walking, letting his body cool.

 

“Hey,” he said, actually sounding winded. He beamed at Jefferson, face flushed pink with exertion.

 

Jefferson scooted sideways to give him room. “Hey.”

 

Finny dropped next to him, close beside him, so the bare skin of their upper legs was pressed together. His hair had gone dark with sweat. He tugged at his damp shirt, rippling it to let air between his chest and the fabric. So close, the smell of his exertion was even stronger, still so strangely appealing.

 

“How was it?”

 

“Incredible,” Finny said. He uncapped one of his water bottles and squirted it into his mouth from several inches outside his lips. It made a loud squelching sound. Within seconds it was empty. “I think I PR’ed a mile back there.”

 

Jefferson tried to keep up while Finny talked about pace, splits, and Garmin data, but his mind was elsewhere. When it seemed like Finny had run out of observations, he made his move. Copying Finny’s earlier action, he clenched his fingers in Finny’s shirt, pulling him into another kiss.

 

This wasn’t the quick brush of lips Finny’s kiss had been. Finny hummed, opening up for him right away. He reached for Jefferson in return, putting a hand on each of Jefferson’s biceps, fingers gently digging in. His mouth was cool from the water. He kissed the way he ran – confident, prepared to go as long as it took, but careful that every step along the way be good.

 

Between the way Jefferson felt about him… emotionally, which was already overwhelming in its own right, and the sweet curl of Finny’s tongue, kissing Finny was a bit of an onslaught. Jefferson slid his hand up Finny’s chest, curled it around the back of Finny’s neck, and held on tight, enjoying every minute of it.

 

It was a long time before they finally stopped kissing. Kissing wasn’t even the right word for it. No, they’d been making out on a bench in broad daylight like a couple of teenagers, unable to be patient enough to wait for the privacy of one of their homes – which they both had, because they were _adults_.

 

During the walk to Jefferson’s car, Finny reached over and took Jefferson’s hand in his. They walked halfway around the lake and down a Chestnut Hill sidewalk holding hands. Afterwards, a quick Google search revealed that their favorite pizza place from school was still open, so they had lunch together there. At one point, Jefferson made Finny laugh so hard, recounting one of their more embarrassing college indiscretions, that Finny snorted water up his nose. When the bill came, Jefferson paid and Finny let him, promising to get the next one. 

 

If it wasn’t for the shroud of the case still hanging over them – the fact that after Jefferson dropped Finny off at home with another kiss, he hopped right back on the highway to work – Jefferson would’ve said that it was the best day of his life. It was the best date he’d ever had, no question.

 

**

 

About 30 minutes after he got settled at his desk, finally able to focus on the day ahead instead of losing himself thinking about the wiry muscles of Finny’s legs, he heard footsteps in the hall behind him. The office wasn't completely dead. Even on a Saturday there were several agents scattered across the bullpen. The weekend shift was in. It was quiet enough, though, that the sound of approaching steps was magnified, breaking his concentration.

 

By the time Caroline made it to his cube, he’d already twisted around to greet her. He recognized her gait. “Hey Pelley.”

 

She looked him up and down, taking in his shorts, t-shirt and still slightly damp hair; long eyelashes making one pronounced sweep. “I feel like a scorned woman,” she told him. She was also dressed casually, wearing tights and a fitted tank top. Unlike him, her clothes were of a quality that proclaimed _designer_ , where his said, _these have been shoved in a drawer for five years_. She put a hand over her heart in mock betrayal. “You never drive with me anymore, now you're working out without me. Am I not enough for you anymore?”

 

“You're plenty,” Jefferson said dryly.

 

“Where has the love gone?” Caroline continued anyway. “Jefferson Haines, am I not pretty enough for you? Do I not try hard enough for you?”

 

It was one of her acts where she entertained herself so much that she couldn't keep a straight face. Her mock-indignant expressed cracked to reveal a smile and her eyes lit up with glee.

 

“It wasn't a workout,” Jefferson told her, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back in his seat. “I’ll have you know I went _running_.”

 

“On purpose?”

 

“On purpose.”

 

She shuddered and this time it mostly wasn't for show. “The things you do for love,” she said dismissively, making it clear that she personally would never be caught dead doing any of those things. Before he could respond, she straightened, staring at him with intent. “Your face is disgusting right now,” she told him, sounding fascinated.

 

Jefferson rolled his eyes. “Go work,” he ordered, pointing at her cubicle.

 

“It's so gross,” she said, taking several steps forward. She took hold of his cheeks, prodding at them like she was molding Play-Doh. When he tried to intercept one of her wrists, she knocked his hand away and kept doing it. “I want to throw up.”

 

The thing was – he was sure he looked like an idiot. He could feel the stupid expression stuck on his face even while she fucked with him. He just didn't think he gave a shit. Hell, not when he could still so vividly remember Finny’s mouth opening under his; his hand sliding under Finny’s shirt. Any time he thought about Finny lately – especially about kissing Finny – it had the effect of downing a shot of espresso: immediately his body was thrumming with energy.

 

Caroline made an exaggerated sound of disgust. While he briefly zoned out, still distracted by their time together on the bench, she vanished with a huff to her cube.

 

For a few seconds, Jefferson was surprised by how disappointed he felt. Yeah, they had a fuckton of work to do, but she was right – they hadn't spent much time together over the past few days. In the midst of all the chaos, he’d missed her.

 

In total, he experienced about ten-seconds of separation anxiety before she reappeared in his cube, dragging her computer chair. She spun it so the back was facing him and straddled it, sitting the opposite of the way you were supposed to. “You need to tell me everything,” she told him, laying her hands across the back and propping her chin on her clasped hands. “And I mean everything, because you’ve clearly been holding back.”

 

Jefferson felt a sudden wave of sympathy for anyone who had to go into an interrogation with her. “Where do you want me to start?” he asked, trying to keep her on ice for a little bit longer. He sat up, and lifted his voice, pretending he was recounting something in a briefing “One morning we were sent to the DCR offices for an interview—”

 

“Yesterday morning would be good. You _dick_ ,” she said.

 

He started talking.

 

**

 

Late Sunday afternoon, Jefferson called Finny for the third time in a row during his commute home. It was already becoming a habit. Since he wasn’t the one driving, he didn’t need to hook into the car’s Bluetooth. Instead, he could hold the phone to his ear and try to avoid the very nosy eavesdropper at the wheel.

 

“Hey,” Finny answered. “I was just about to text you. Are you on your way home?”

 

“Yep,” Jefferson said. “Caroline’s chauffeuring me. We’re going to the gym and then I’m going to crash the minute I walk in the door.”

 

“I bet,” Finny said. “Hi Caroline.”

 

“You’re not on speaker,” Jefferson told him, amused. “Finny says hello,” he dutifully informed her, momentarily holding the phone to the side.

 

Caroline’s entertainment with the situation increased noticeably. “Hi Finny,” she said, in the same kind of voice she’d used on the EMT driver to get him to give them a ride home.

 

In response, Jefferson flicked her off. Then he turned his attention back to the conversation. “How are you feeling about heading back to work tomorrow?”

 

“Okay,” Finny said.

 

The word didn’t instill much confidence in Jefferson. He felt his hand tighten on the phone with fury; not at Finny, but at the sick man who’d driven him to feel this way. “Want me to take you in the morning?’

 

“No,” Finny said immediately, sounding much more convincing. “You’ve missed too much work for me already.”

 

“I don’t ca—”

 

Finny cut him off gently. “Really, I’ve got this. I heard everything you said. I’m going to call a Lyft there.”

 

“Okay,” Jefferson said. He breathed out, rolling his shoulders so they would drop.

 

Finny’s tone shifted. “I feel like we’ve switched places.”

 

Jefferson laughed. “Kind of. Should I be telling you to bring a jacket just in case?”

 

“I’m not that bad.”

 

“You definitely are,” Jefferson said, cheeks creasing. “It’s fine. I like it when you mother-hen me.”

 

“I never _mother-hen_ you.”

 

“It’s okay Finny – you can tell me how to dress however you want when this is all over.”

 

“Yeah baby,” Caroline said in an undertone, mocking him.

 

He punched her in the leg hard enough that she swore at him.

 

“Everything alright over there?” Finny asked, sounding amused.

 

“Caroline and I started warming up early for the boxing ring,” Jefferson said, grinning obnoxiously at her.

 

“Try not to go off the road.”

 

“Yeah, don’t go off the road, Pelley,” Jefferson said loudly. “Ow,” he added a moment later, rubbing at his forearm. “The things I’m subjected to, Finny. You wouldn’t believe.”

 

Finny chuckled. “Are you two always this ridiculous?”

 

“Outside the office? Probably. You’ve seen how we are at work, more or less.”

 

“Right, I have,” Finny said. “Although I think you were probably on best behavior then.”

 

“Maybe,” Jefferson conceded. Almost definitely.

 

There was a strange pause. “Oh hey,” Finny began, in an obviously forced-casual voice. “Are you doing anything Tuesday night?”

 

“Only hoping to get out of work at a reasonable time.,” Jefferson said slowly. “Why?”

 

“I have this thing,” Finny said. “A fancy thing – a Gala for this neighborhood group in Boston; you’ve met one of their Board Chairs, Phyllis Dreegan. I was wondering if you might want to go with me. As my date.”

 

At the last few words, Jefferson turned towards the window, trying to get some of his face under control. There was a pleasant lurch to his stomach. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”

 

“If you have to be at work, I’ll understand,” Finny told him quickly.

 

“I’ll go in early that morning,” Jefferson promised. “I’ll be there.” He grimaced. Some of his good mood evaporated. “Pending a murder, I’ll be there.”

 

 “Yeesh. I still can’t believe that’s something you genuinely have to worry about at work.”

 

“I worried about it a lot less before this last month,” Jefferson said. There was silence down the line. He cringed at himself. Wow, way to ruin the mood, Haines.

 

Luckily, Finny still seemed to be used to his directness. “The Gala is black-tie,” he said, as if only just remembering. “You have a tux, right?”

 

“Of course.” Was it clean? Jefferson really didn’t think so. If he was remembering correctly, he’d shoved it back in the garment bag and left it hanging in his closet after the last wedding he went to.

 

“Good,” Finny said. “Wear that, please.”

 

“There we go!” Jefferson announced. “We’re back to normal.”

 

“I can’t wait to see you in it,” Finny said, ignoring the teasing. “You’re going to look very tall, dark, and handsome.”

 

There it was again – that flirting that was going to take Jefferson a long time to get used to. He felt a flush of heat. “I would say the same about you,” he said. “But you know – tall.”

 

“Smooth Jay,” Caroline said with a snort.

 

At the same time, Finny let out a surprised bark of laughter. “Wow! Invitation rescinded.”

 

“Too late,” Jefferson said. “No takebacks.”

 

“No takebacks?” Finny repeated incredulously. “It’s my event.” He was still laughing.

 

“Where am I meeting you Tuesday night?” Jefferson asked. “And can we drink beforehand?”

 

“That sounds like a great idea. Let’s do that.”

 

They spoke for a while longer, finalizing their plans, and then just catching up. Finny had gotten sucked into some convoluted show on Netflix he was trying to explain the plot of. Jefferson promised to check it out.

 

The moment they hung up, Jefferson was back on his phone, frantically searching Google maps.

 

“What are you doing?” Caroline asked. Her voice said: _pay attention to **me** now._

“I need to find a dry cleaner that’s still open,” Jefferson explained, a little desperately.

 

“What on earth for?”

 

“I’m going to a _Gala_ on Tuesday night.”

 

Caroline lost it at that – completely lost it, laughing so hard she had to wipe tears from her eyes.

 

“I know,” Jefferson said, deciding to take that as commiseration

 

“You are so whipped,” she informed him.

 

“Fuck off,” Jefferson said, although it was probably true.

 

“Finny is the gift that never stops giving,” she mused. They went a mile on the highway while she kept laughing. Once she’d calmed herself down, she added. “Let’s grab your tux then. You can tell me where to drive after to drop it off.”

 

“Thank you, Caroline,” he said fervently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! <3 you for supporting this along the way!


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